


pull it together (the 'I have so many feelings and none of them are actionable' mix)

by readythefanons



Series: the Lorenz of Doubt [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Leicester Alliance (Fire Emblem), Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Spoilers for Azure Moon, Spoilers for Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Spoilers for Verdant Wind, lorenz pov, tagged multi because lorenz has a lot of crushes okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:36:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 56,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26247277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readythefanons/pseuds/readythefanons
Summary: Lorenz asks Leonie why she keeps her hair so short, gives offense, is the object of a practical demonstration, makes an embarrassing noise, and somehow makes a friend. Fashion disasters, magical theory, strange things afoot, and political maneuverings ensue, and Lorenz always has too many feelings (but what else is new).
Relationships: Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Leonie Pinelli
Series: the Lorenz of Doubt [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1885942
Comments: 111
Kudos: 39





	1. A question

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, let's do this!
> 
> JSYK, this story started off as a fill for the FE3H kinkmeme ([original prompt here](https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1608.html?thread=2743624#cmt2743624)), buuut it got away from me and became something else. To read the original fill (feat. Leonie, Lorenz, and sexy hair pulling) please check out the ["get to the good parts cut."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25984840)
> 
> With thanks to the prompter, who probably didn't know what chaos they were unleashing upon my life, and everyone who read and commented on the original fill <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor language note: Lorenz uses the word whore at one point in reference to himself

Leonie and Lorenz had, somewhat unintentionally and certainly to both parties’ surprise, become… friends? Allies, certainly. Companions, even. Perhaps friends. Friends enough that sparring together on their free day wasn’t an entirely preposterous idea.

They were working on their unarmed combat, which neither of them excelled at. More specifically, they were taking a break between bouts, catching their breath, It happened.

“Leonie, why do you keep your hair so short?” Lorenz asked. Leonie gave him a look. 

“Our hair’s the same.” 

“Not true,” Lorenz said. He went on to explain that his own hair was artfully styled in accordance with both current fashion and timeless style, whereas Leonie’s was cropped like a street waif’s coifs. “...why you opt for this style when instead, you could wear it long and flowing, like that Mercedes or Dorothea—”

“Yeah, let me stop you there,” Leonie interrupted. She seemed irritated. “Mercedes and Dorothea are ranged fighters. I’m a close-quarter fighter. Kind of different situations.”

“Then what about Hilda?” Lorenz asked. Leonie laughed. 

“I’m not running around in _pigtails,_ can you imagine?” 

“Please focus,” Lorenz sighed. “Why do you maintain this haircut?”

“Huh, you really are interested in the answer,” Leonie commented. Obviously. “Alright. I keep it this way because it’s more practical. Takes less time to comb, less time to wash, and it doesn’t present an extra handhold on the battlefield.”

“I doubt one’s _hair_ really presents that much of a liability,” Lorenz scoffed. Leonie started to frown at him, but he held up his hands. “But okay, okay, I concede. It’s the job of a noble to guide provide counsel to commoners, but sometimes time and experience are the best teachers.” Then, in an unnoblemanly mutter, he added, “ _Stultorum eventus magister est._ ” In retrospect, that was when it started to go wrong, but—well, no mortal was granted with the gift of perfect foresight. Nevertheless. 

Leonie rolled her eyes and got back to her feet. “Alright, I’ve got my breath back. Ready to go again?” she asked.

He probably could—and should—have predicted what was going to happen when he insulted in in Old Adrestian, of course. Leonie might not have a classical education, but she was irritatingly good at sniffing out when he was being snide.  
Nevertheless, it was still something of a shock to him when, having been pinned by the girl, he felt one of her hands slide into his hair. That relatively minor surprise, of course, was entirely overshadowed by what happened when she actually pulled his hair, hard enough to pull his head back. 

Lorenz was entirely unprepared for the lust that went through him like a lance. It—he—Goddess above, he’d been, that was to say. Lorenz was a healthy young man. He’d been aroused before, but there, pressed against the unforgiving ground with his equally unforgiving opponent on top of him, he—he’d never felt like _that._ The, the sound (the moan) that issued from this throat was entirely uncontrolled, and he—that is, later, burning with humiliation, he knew that he sounded like some, some baseborn, backalley whore, but in the moment all he knew was—oh, it felt so _good._ He’d never felt so intensely, dangerously good, and so surely, it wasn’t his fault that he—that he couldn’t control his own voice? Goddess forgive him, he nearly trembled every time his mind so much as brushed against the memory. 

Into the sudden, ringing silence, Leonie—still astride his back—said, “What the fuck. Lorenz?”

“Unhand me,” he ground out, voice shaking, “Now.” She scrambled off him, and he laid still for—just a moment. Humiliation was not as much of a tonic to unexpected arousal as one might hope, and even as the horrifying gravity of the situation asserted himself, he was still shaking, his body still hissing with, with unbecoming need. If she had—if she had defied him, kept her place atop him, Lorenz wasn’t sure that he would have objected. 

“Did I hurt you?” she asked, and Lorenz wanted to laugh sickly.

“I’m fine,” he lied, and pushed himself into a seated position. He was entirely erect, and blood seemed to crackle with energy, and all in all he was very—off balance. He drew his knees towards his chest to better disguise his—condition, and made himself look at her. 

She was flushed with exertion and likely secondhand embarrassment, but she didn’t look disgusted, and she didn’t look triumphant, as one might if they’d gained an advantage on an opponent. She looked confused and surprised and—concerned.

“Sure you’re okay?” she asked, and Lorenz’s—base, material body wanted him to go to her, to pursue more of that, that sensation. “You look…” she trailed off, searching.

And then, Goddess above, her hand came up and drifted towards his head. 

“What are you _doing?_ ” he demanded, voice cracking. She froze, hand halfway between them. Now she reddened.

“Sorry,” she said. “I was—your hair’s messed up. I was gonna fix it.” She withdrew her hand. “Sorry, Lorenz.” 

“I—think nothing of it,” Lorenz managed. He ran his own hand through his still-disordered locks, firmly suppressed any sort of reaction he might have to any sort of sense memory that might be trying to enact itself. “Better now, see?” 

It was not better. Lorenz couldn’t shake the memory.

It wasn’t Leonie, thank the Goddess. She was a good type, but she was not only a commoner but a commoner from Lorenz’s own territory. Any sort of assignation between them would have been wildly unethical, to say nothing of a total lack of political or economic benefit to his people and family name. Lorenz did like her company, but as a comrade and a friend. Lorenz gave (very, very private) thanks that, after The Incident, he still looked at her and saw only—Leonie. 

However, Lorenz couldn’t shake the—newly gleaned knowledge about himself that had been thrust upon him. He knew that lovers tended to—embrace each other, caress each other, even, even _grope_ each other, but he’d never considered that they might, willingly and with enjoyment, handle each other more roughly. He was a fool. 

Now, alone in his room (and sometimes, horribly and inconveniently, when he wasn’t alone and wasn’t in his room), he couldn’t help but remember—

Lorenz debased himself only rarely, and he felt guilty when he did. This is not to say that certain thoughts did not spring unbidden to his mind, just that he tried not to indulge them. It happened mostly at night, when he was waiting for sleep to find him, and when it did he usually—he wound his hands firmly in his sheets, tried to think of, of politics, or his lessons, or the technique for brewing the perfect cup of tea—anything but, but his disobedient flesh and his body’s base desires. And mostly it worked. And sometimes, well, he drifted into dark and crowded dreams— _himself in some faceless lover’s arms (milky white skin and dark, flowing hair) kissing soft lips and pressing her soft body into the bed. Her hand tangling in his own hair, pulling, making him cry out. Trapped, again, by the strength of his own reaction, voice and body shaking as the hand in his hair continued to pull relentlessly. Writhing as the hand (different now, with golden brown skin and strong, square fingers) twisted in his hair. Gasping with need under sparkling green eyes and an ever-smiling mouth._ —and woke restless and unsatisfied. 

Seeing Leonie in the dining hall filled Lorenz with mortification all over again. He made himself scarce. He should have known it wouldn’t end there.

“Want to tell me why you’ve been avoiding me?” Leonie demanded. 

Lorenz, who was stopping by on his way to the library and had _not_ expected to be—accosted by some lunatic classmate lying in wait in his own room—let out a very masculine noise of surprise and stumbled backwards. A fire spell was already lighting up his fingertips—he wouldn’t have hurt her, he was just surprised and acting on instinct—but Leonie reacted on instinct as well. She ducked under his guard, grabbed his dominant hand by the wrist, and slammed him against his door. Lorenz swore he felt his bones rattle.

“What the hell, Lorenz,” she demanded, face a scant few inches away.

“I should be asking you the same thing,” Lorenz objected. “Why are you in my room?” 

“I was looking for you,” Leonie said, and if her slackening grip and sudden flush was anything to go by, she’d temporarily forgotten that she was _trespassing._ She didn’t let go entirely though. Goddess and all the Saints, what did the woman do in her free time, that her petite hands were so thoughtlessly strong? “If I let go, you’re not going to roast me?”

“It was a perfectly understandable reaction,” Lorenz sighed. She let go of him, took several paces back. 

“Sorry,” she said. 

“Forgiven,” Lorenz said with a careless flick of the wrist. He made a face and rubbed said wrist. Sweet, merciful Goddess, she had a strong grip. He hoped it wasn’t going to bruise.

“Sorry,” Leonie repeated. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Lorenz sighed. He stopped rubbing his wrist and ran a hand through his hair. “Why are you here?”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“So you broke into my quarters like some kind of common thief?” 

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Fine, here I am. Talk,” Lorenz said and leaned one hip against his desk. Leonie sat on his bed.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she said, and stopped. Lorenz waited for her to continue. “Why?”

“I have not,” he lied. Honesty and forthrightness were important traits, but there were limits.

“Yes, you have,” Leonie growled. “Is it—are you angry at me?”

“What? No,” Lorenz said, and he suddenly saw how his recent actions might have appeared from the outside. “ _If_ I were avoiding you, which I am not, it would probably be out of consideration for your feelings.”

“Excuse me?” Leonie demanded. 

“Your feelings,” Lorenz repeated. Snideness made him add, “You do have them.”

“Yes, I know I have them,” Leonie said. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, possibly I thought I made you uncomfortable, and I was trying to give you some space from me,” Lorenz said. “My company is not always welcome, you see.” This had been impressed upon him on more than one occasion by Professor Eisner as well as Leonie herself. 

“So you leave every time I enter a room?” Leonie asked. She still appeared nettled. Lorenz shrugged. “Well, thanks for thinking of my feelings, I guess, but you don’t have to do that.” Lorenz felt himself relax just in time for her to add, “Spar with me this week?” 

“… Fine,” Lorenz managed after a long moment. He looked at her, trying to discern her intentions, but she looked back at him guilelessly. She was either a much more gifted liar than he’d imagined, or she was a fool. Only time would tell.

She was a fool.

Lorenz may, possibly, have been wondering, in some unworthy part of his mind, if the invitation to spar was in actuality a coded invitation to… well, he wasn’t sure, but something torrid and unseemly. This thought was so out-of-place and untoward that it “threw him off his game,” as it were, slowed his reactions and hobbled his otherwise effortless grace. And, of course, the first few times Leonie did gain the advantage on him (his own body pressed to the ground in any of a number of uncomfortable positions, her body strategically intertwined with his to render him immobile, both of them breathing heavily) _the thought_ pushed its way in and made his stomach swoop with anticipat—dread. And horror. And preemptive embarrassment. But it never happened again, and so Lorenz’s fears never came to fruition. Good. 

And then one day, a considerable time after The Incident, long after Lorenz had put it behind him (except for those rare occasions when it, ah, remembered itself) Leonie brought up the topic of—of coiffure again.

“Ugh,” Leonie said. They were catching their breath between bouts, drinking water in the shade. “Time for a haircut.” She blew a breath upwards, rifling her bangs, which were indeed long enough to reach her eyes. 

“I still think you should consider growing it out,” Lorenz said. “It would be more becoming.”

“We have the same haircut,” Leonie insisted yet again.

“And I am the son of a noble house,” Lorenz reminded her, “whereas you are a pretty, if rather rough-mannered, commoner girl, and there’s no reason for you to run about with a boy’s haircut.” Really, he was surprised she still hadn’t come to see things his way.

“Thank you?” Leonie said.

“If you didn’t want to let it cascade like—Lysithea,” Lorenz continued, remembering at the last moment that Leonie was likely to take offense to comparisons to Mercedes or Dorothea, “You could braid it like Ingrid, or pin it up like Marianne.” Honesty compelled him to add, “Although I must say, I do believe Marianne would be a heartbreaking sight with her hair down and combed properly.”

“Heartbreaking, huh?” Leonie smirked. Oh, dear. Oh, no. “I’ve seen her with it down. She’s very pretty. I don’t know if I’d say heartbreaking, though.”

“I don’t think—when?” Lorenz asked, which really was very—unfortunate. Mercifully, Leonie did not immediately descend on this slight miscalculation with all the predatory intent of Raphael at mealtime.

Unmercifully, she said, “I bet you spent more time thinking about hair this month than I have all year. You have a fixation.” Lorenz felt himself turn a deeply unflattering shade of red.

“...A noble pays proper mind to all aspects of one’s appearance,” he managed. Surely only his noble upbringing prevented it from coming out as a common mumble.

“Well a commoner girl likes hair that doesn’t take forever to take care of,” Leonie said. 

“I’m sure it doesn’t take that much time to care for.” 

“Since we have the _same haircut,_ I guess neither of us will ever know,” Leonie said carelessly. She glanced at him before turning to face him entirely. “You want me to cut yours? It’s getting long too.”

“No, thank you,” Lorenz said. His cheeks burned most uncomfortably. Leonie probably cut her hair with a kitchen knife or a sharp stone.

“Seriously, it’s in your eyes, doesn’t that drive you crazy?” Leonie asked, and reached towards him. Time seemed to slow down as the scene—horribly reminiscent of The Incident, actually—played itself out. Unlike The Incident, however, Lorenz’s voice did not issue forth in a verbalization of dismay. Neither did Lorenz move to stop her. Instead, her hand came to rest in his purple locks. Queasy-uncertain-(excited)-anticipation froze him in place, and his blood quickened under her touch.

“Why is your hair so soft?” she asked. Then she, huh, she leaned over and she sniffed his head. “And why does it always smell like flowers?” She trailed her fingers though the strands. 

“I use a tonic,” Lorenz said weakly. It wasn’t the same _overpowering_ reaction as last time, but it he was still—his blood seemed too thin and too hot, and his body was shaken by minute tremors. “Improves the cuticle.” Goddess’s mercy, he was speaking in sentence fragments. This was dreadful.

“I have no idea what that means,” Leonie said. Her fingers were still in his hair, and they scratched gently at his scalp. He barely suppressed a shudder, and he couldn’t stop the way he leaned into the touch. 

“Makes it shiny,” Lorenz managed. Goddess, he was breathless. He felt like he was suspended by a very fine filament over a yawning chasm, and any second he was liable to fall. He dared not move.

“Well it certainly works,” Leonie said from quite far away. “You have very shiny hair.”

“Mm,” Lorenz managed. Leonie’s fingers were carding through his hair, and he was almost dizzy with—waiting. Lorenz swayed into her touch. All his energies were focused on—on not making a noise, though the Goddess only knew what kind of noise would escape him at this juncture. Possibly some kind of whine, or an animalian purr.

“I think it’s almost long enough to braid,” Leonie said eventually. 

“Never learned how.” His eyes were slipping closed, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to force them open. Leonie was closer than she was before, and he did not know when she had moved.

“Well you’re in luck,” Leonie said. “I might have short hair, but I do know how to do a simple braid. Wanna see?” 

“’Kay,” Lorenz breathed. Goddess, no, that was a terrible idea, but—yes, yes he did want that. It was reprehensible, he knew, but he liked the feeling of hands in his hair and did not want it to stop. He didn’t want her to braid it, he wanted her to tangle her fingers in it and _pull_ , to subject him to that overwhelming sensation. 

She shifted so she was sitting directly behind him and ran her fingers purposefully through his hair. Lorenz bit his lip, forced himself to breathe through his nose. Goddess, this was a terrible idea, and every part of him (save his rational mind) wanted it. She dragged her fingers through it, then divided it into sections and began the braid.

Goddess, it was—the phrase ‘exquisite torture’ presented itself. She wasn’t—it wasn’t the rough, merciless pull that haunted his fantasies, but even this businesslike touch was affecting. He clenched his hands into tight fists on his knees and forbade himself from moving. He wanted to jerk his head away, feel the strength of her grip. He wanted to beg her to grip his hair more firmly, pull more sharply. The gentleness of her hands was almost as unbearable as her previous rough treatment. Lorenz kept his eyes tightly shut and minded himself to breathe, breathe, breathe. 

And then it was done. Leonie tied the end, then sat back to admire her work. 

“All done,” she cheerfully. Lorenz didn’t (couldn’t) move. Leonie poked his shoulder. “Turn around so I can see.” Goddess, he was so aroused that he ached, and she wanted—fine. So be it. Lorenz turned, slowly. He knew he was flushed horribly, and he could only hope he didn’t look as dazed as he felt. Goddess, he could barely move without wanting—without jolting himself, little crackles of arousal as sharp as static sparks in winter. He turned to face her but didn’t meet her eyes. He was sure he was trembling.

“Hm,” she said, a noise of acknowledgment. She seemed neither appalled nor disgusted, although she did sound a little surprised. “Next time, let me do the crown style,” Leonie said, sketching a line across the top of Lorenz’s head. “Or maybe twin braids.”

Lorenz did not know what to make of it.

She did end up cutting her hair, sometime that same afternoon. It was well enough (though unnecessarily masculine) and suited her. For reasons somewhat obscure even to himself, Lorenz decanted some of his hair tonic into a smaller jar and had it—and instructions for use—delivered to her. 

She didn’t ask him about it directly, but he was pleased to observe, later, that she had clearly used it. Her hair’s luster improved dramatically, and he saw her running her hands through it on multiple occasions.

He did not expect her to share it, and yet— 

“Have you been sharing that hair tonic with the ladies of our house?” Lorenz asked. They were dining together before afternoon classes.

“Yeah. It came up in conversation,” Leonie said. “Why?”

“Our house seems to be on its way to being the best groomed by far,” Lorenz said, pleased at the notion. Leonie snorted. Marianne and Hilda entered the dining hall, and he observed the improved quality of their hair with approval.

“Does it enhance _Marianne’s_ beauty?” she asked, grinning. Lorenz nodded absently.

“In truth, she needs no additional adornment for her beauty to shine through, but it certainly draws it out that even uncultured boors might notice,” Lorenz said. Woe, but he was a fool. The words tripped from his tongue with all the oblivious sincerity of a pup greeting its master. Leonie snorted again and dug into her soup. Lorenz realized what he just said. “… Your silence is conspicuous,” he accused.

“You have it so bad for that girl,” Leonie said with a fond smile. What did it say about her that she was warmest when she was overtly harrying her allies, and what did it say about him that he counted her a true friend? Alas. She popped a bit of onion into her mouth and raised her brows at him. “I saw her with her hair down again, by the way.” 

“I do wish you’d stop insinuating that I have some sort of—inappropriate infatuation—” Lorenz began.

“Is it still an insinuation when I accuse you outright?” Leonie interrupted. “And I didn’t say anything about inappropriate.” 

“It is unseemly to mock your social superiors, and especially to taunt them with—implications that they wish to see their peers in, in states of undress and disarray—”

“Oh, wow,” Leonie said. “There’s a lot to respond to there. Okay, first of all—”

“We are friends, not just noble and commoner. I know. I’m—sorry,” Lorenz apologized promptly, one hand raised to buy her silence. “I was feeling defensive.”

“Well don’t think I forgot about ‘ _undress_ and disarray.’” Leonie said, smiling rather like an infernal demon. “She was fully clothed, for the record.”

“What are you talking about?” Lysithea asked, claiming a seat next to Leonie. She eyed them suspiciously. “...Am I going to want to sit somewhere else?” Ignatz was there too, and going by his red face, he had certainly heard what Leonie was just saying.

“No, no,” Leonie said, dropping the subject. The conversation drifted on. 

“Come here,” Leonie said. The professor had sent them out to gather spell components in the woods, and they were on their way back. The day was beautiful. The air was clear and crisp, and being in the forest reminded Lorenz of childhood outings in Gloucester. As the gathering of the components was not time-senstive, they were taking their time returning to the monastery. “I learned a new braid.”

“I’m no longer certain that _I_ am the one with the hair fixation,” Lorenz said as dryly as he could manage while a flush overtook him. Nevertheless, he approached the place Leonie was sitting.

“ _Marianne_ taught me,” Leonie said. Lorenz sat a little ways in front of her, head tilted to the side and eyebrows raised.

“Oh?” Lorenz asked, and turned pinker. Leonie grinned.

“Mmhm,” she said. She scooted forward so they were sitting knee-to-knee. “This is for your bangs, so you face me.” Lorenz nodded and closed his eyes. Leonie set her hands in his hair and started the braid.

Lorenz tried to focus on the sound of the wind, the smell of the pine needles, and the feel of the sun overhead. Each gentle tug put him into more of a daze, and his mind wandered. His body’s tension seemed to be uncoiling with each touch. How odd, how unpredictable. Lorenz began to drift.

“I’m not pulling too hard, am I?” Leonie asked out of nowhere. Her voice pulled him back into his body. “Tell me if I am.”

“You’re not,” Lorenz said. Oh, he was flushed. “It’s fine.”

“Yeah, you’re tough,” Leonie teased. “You can handle it.”

“It is unbecoming to mock your social betters,” Lorenz mumbled. His eyelids were heavy. 

He realized his mistake when Leonie clicked her tongue in irritation and tugged his hair sharply. 

“ _Nnn._ ” Lorenz kept his eyes firmly shut as the—the noise escaped him. It was somewhat muffled, but. Well. Anyway. That was. Fuck. 

Leonie said nothing, merely began picking apart the braid to about halfway before rebraiding it. Lorenz breathed in, breathed out. In, and out, until he felt less like there were a thousand thousand sparks trying to escape his skin.

“...Why did you do that?” The words seemed to speak themselves.

“You were being a jerk.”

“Why are you doing any of this?” Lorenz asked. He was—he didn’t even know any more. His body was shivering with, with energy. He was aroused, physically, and his breathing was faster and shallower than usual, but he felt—distant from all of that, somehow. He should feel alarmed and embarrassed and, and all number of things—horrified, exposed, uncomfortable—but instead he was just—here. The sun was shining and the air smelled of pine, and Leonie’s hand were in his hair and he was erect. As if it wasn’t shameful to be in such a state in the presence of one other than his spouse, and as if it wasn’t humiliating to have such an inappropriate reaction to something so innocuous. As if it were all benign. 

“I don’t know,” Leonie said thoughtfully. “Why are you letting me?”

“I don’t know,” Lorenz echoed. He was _not_ expecting this to inspire her to pull his hair again, but she did. _Oh_ , that really was quite—he doubted he’d have been able to contain his gasp, even if he’d been forewarned.

“...Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a sensitive scalp?” Leonie asked. 

“It’s never come up before,” Lorenz managed from the depths of his haze. Oh, he was so—it felt so strange, and so good, when she did that.

“Well you do,” Leonie said. 

“Noted,” Lorenz breathed. Leonie’s hands shifted, one hand coming up to tangle in the hair on the side of his head. Lorenz forced his heavy eyelids to open, saw her sharp orange eyes watching him closely. Oh, he, he didn’t quite think he liked that. To be observed, and know himself to be observed, was too—it was a lot—

He was biting his lip when she made the first pull. The sound that emerged from his throat was muffled. She pulled harder, and he gasped at the sharpness of it. She tangled her fingers roughly in his hair, and a helpless noise escaped him. Unexpectedly, she stopped. Her hands were still in his hair, but her silence was expectant.

“Why are you doing this?” Lorenz managed. Goddess, but he was—he was so hard, and he was breathless, and his body was humming with need. 

“I already told you, I don’t know,” Leonie said, and she sounded… irritated? It was hard to concentrate. “Why are you letting me? And don’t lie this time.” Lie? Goddess, Lorenz could barely think, let along dissemble.

“I wasn’t lying. I don’t understand it myself.”

“You understand something,” Leonie insisted. 

“Well, I suppose I understand _something,_ ” Lorenz agreed weakly. “But I don’t understand you.”

“That makes two of us,” Leonie said, and pulled again. His eyes rolled back as he moaned. She kept pulling, twisting and tugging, and Lorenz was lost in it. His—his body’s bizarre, unfathomable, unmasterable need made itself known, pushed whines and whimpers and needy, embarrassing sounds from his throat. Oh, Goddess, he—it was—he was so hard, and he wanted more even if he didn’t know what he wanted. Unbidden, inchoate fantasies pressed themselves upon him—a delicate beauty with her hands in his hair—shifting and changing even as he tried not to think of it. And as his thoughts shifted and as he fretted that he’d think of—of that—of course it happened. The unbidden image of, of  
golden brown skin and a wickedly smiling mouth under cool green eyes pressed itself upon him. 

“Oh, oh, _stop,_ stop now,” he begged. His, he—the thought of that person’s hand twisting in his hair, of that person seeing him like—like this, so undone, so helpless was—it was unbearable. He was so hard it hurt, and if this went on for another second, he was worried he’d, he’d spill—

The hands dropped away from him entirely. It was just Lorenz, sitting, curled in on himself, frantically willing himself not to come. He, he couldn’t—but, but _oh_ , he needed—

He breathed, and breathed, and no one was touching him, and there were no hands in his hair, and the stupid, unmannerly hunger consuming him lessened.

“...Lorenz?” a voice asked, and it was Leonie. Of course it was Leonie. Lorenz breathed some more, felt himself settle back into his body. She didn’t ask if he was okay, but it was in her very tone. He made sit up from where he’d been hunched over.

“I’m fine,” he said, and it didn’t feel as much of a lie as it could have.

“...Okay,” she said, and he breathed some more and felt less like he was about to be torn asunder by strange and primal forces. “Your hair’s messed up.” 

Lorenz opened his eyes and gave her a look. “Is it,” he said flatly.

“Yep,” she said, and sounded inordinately cheerful. She bit her lip, then added, “Let me fix it.” Lorenz snorted and looked off to the side. He felt. Better. 

“Do what you will.” 

She leaned forward and gently brushed her fingers through his hair. He half-expected to—to have to ask her to stop again, but instead he felt himself settle some more. How strange. When he was sure he wasn’t going to—when he was sure, he opened his eyes just far enough to observe her. What a strange friend he had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIME FOR RECS (which will not be the same from fic to fic, aha)  
> 1\. [Carefully Balanced Floral Notes by whaleandjanuary](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25213228/chapters/61112665). Lorenz/Felix sex pollen fic. It's really, truly amazing, you gotta go read it, it's funny, it's hot, it's just so, so good. GO! Read! Comment!  
> 2\. [Taking the Lead](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20497853). Claude/Lorenz. _If fate has decreed that Lorenz and Claude are to be rivals for life, then Claude should at least have the decency to know how to waltz, or at least Lorenz believes so. The only way to ensure that their competition remain fair is to help the other catch up with his own dance moves._
> 
> Also like... i wrote [another fill on the meme](https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1608.html?thread=2913352#cmt2913352). Established Lorenz/Leonie with bonus threesome Balthus, in which Balthus is the competent one somehow. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ There's some roleplay, pegging, blow jobs, idk  
> \--  
> Tune in next time for: preparing for prom


	2. tailoring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did you hear who Hanneman chose to represent us at the bird dance?” Leonie asked. Lorenz made a face at her. She only called it the ‘bird dance’ because he’d been too quick to remind her that it was the White Heron Cup, and she was possessed of a perverse sense of humor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is using the strikethrough markup cheesy and lazy? possibly but this whole chapter is about PROM so clearly i'm past it :D
> 
> ALSO if you skipped ch 1 (I wouldn't blame you), here are the recs from ch 1 again (because they're _good_ )  
> 1\. [Carefully Balanced Floral Notes by whaleandjanuary](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25213228/chapters/61112665). Lorenz/Felix sex pollen fic. It's really, truly amazing, you gotta go read it, it's funny, it's hot, it's just so, so good. GO! Read! Comment!  
> 2\. [Taking the Lead](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20497853). Claude/Lorenz. _If fate has decreed that Lorenz and Claude are to be rivals for life, then Claude should at least have the decency to know how to waltz, or at least Lorenz believes so. The only way to ensure that their competition remain fair is to help the other catch up with his own dance moves._

“You’re in for a treat,” Leonie said cheerfully. They were going to study in the library, and she was leaning in the doorway of his room.

“What?” Lorenz said. He was gathering his study materials.

“You,” Leonie repeated, “Are in for a surprise.”

“It pains me to repeat myself, but what?” Lorenz said, not bothering to look at her.

“Did you hear who Hanneman chose to represent us at the bird dance?” Leonie asked. Lorenz made a face at her. She only called it the ‘bird dance’ because he’d been too quick to remind her that it was the White Heron Cup, and she was possessed of a perverse sense of humor. 

“No, but I imagine you’re about to tell me,” he said. He attempted to feign indifference, but Leonie was unfooled. She swayed into the room and leaned against the inside of the doorway.

“Marianne,” she said. Lorenz froze, staring at nothing. _Marianne_ as the Dancer…? “Isn’t that nice?” 

“A surprising choice. Many people are inclined to overlook her due to her reserved manner, but Professor Hanneman is astute,” Lorenz eventually managed. He cleared his throat, still looking at an inner vision. Marianne in flowing white and blue robes, legs bared— “Why are you telling me?”

“I’m doing you a favor, Lorenz,” Leonie said mildly.

“By telling me things that are none of my business?” 

“Because,” Leonie said, “Hilda has bullied all us girls into getting ready together. I’ll see if I can convince her to leave her hair down for you.” Lorenz was quite aware that he was blushing, had been since she’d uttered the blue-haired girl’s name.

“Are you ever going to forget about that?”

“Never,” Leonie said with relish. “Besides, you were right, it really is pretty. I don’t know if I’d use the word ‘heartbreaking,’ but you’ll have to judge for yourself. Or were you hoping to keep it a secret, something only you—and me, and Hilda, and Lysithea—knew about?” 

“Such beauty deserves to be admired by all,” Lorenz said automatically. Leonie, the she-devil, laughed outright. He sighed. “Why do you torment me?” 

“It’s fun,” Leonie said. Of course it was that simple. What heinous crime had Lorenz committed, that the Goddess saw fit to saddle him with such a brute for a friend?

“Hmph. Does this interest in Marianne’s grooming mean that you’ll be attending the ball? Somehow, I imagined you’d be running barefoot through the woods or whatever else you rustic types enjoy more.”

“I’m going,” Leonie said, and added obnoxiously, “Raph heard there’s gon be good eats. Him ‘n’ me are gon dee-stroy the spread.”

“Your vile argot does not amuse me,” Lorenz lied. She laughed.

Lorenz took an appropriate amount of time ensuring that his appearance for the White Heron Cup and attending ball was suitably immaculate. As he applied cream to his face before bed, he wondered idly if his classmates were also taking suitable precautions. 

“Of course,” Hilda said the next morning. “I always try to get enough sleep, and I never skip my skin regimen.”

“Of course not,” Lorenz said. “You are always perfectly lovely. I was merely wondering if you’d inquired of our classmates…?”

“What’re you two talking about?” Leonie asked as she dropped into the seat at the table next to Hilda. Raphael sat next to Lorenz.

“The White Heron Cup,” Hilda said. “Have you started to prepare?” 

Leonie and Raphael gave her a strange look.

“I thought it wasn’t until next week,” Raphael said. Leonie nodded. Lorenz and Hilda exchanged a look of their own. Oh, dear.

It was a good thing Lorenz and Hilda intervened. Raphael’s formal uniform didn’t even _fit._ Frankly, the state of his day-to-day uniform was a crime against tailoring, but that he had been issued a set of _formal_ blacks that didn’t even button properly—it was appalling. So Hilda saw to the women, and Lorenz took it upon himself to see to the men. Despite his rough manners, Raphael was a good man of easygoing character and he readily submitted to an inspection of his formal attire. Ignatz, too, was of an agreeable nature and modeled his uniform’s fit at Lorenz’s request. Lorenz advised him to have his jacket refitted, and recommended the best monastery tailor for the task. That only left—the difficult one.

“Claude, I really must insist,” Lorenz insisted. He was _insisting._ Claude, the villain, laughed at him.

“Are you really that interested in seeing me with my shirt off?” he asked. Lorenz did not flush. He did not.

“Not at all, but you are the leader of the Golden Deer house, and your appearance reflects on all of us. If your formal uniform is, is dirty or wrinkled or, Goddess forfend, ill-fitting, there is still time to fix it.”

“Ill-fitting?” Claude asked, looking inappropriately mirthful. Lorenz informed him of the dire state of Raphael’s uniform. Claude looked entertained but not suitably outraged as he should. What an impossible person. 

“Claude,” Lorenz said, steeling himself, “Please.” His gambit worked. Claude was looking at him with surprise.

“Does this really mean that much to you?” 

“It does,” Lorenz said. “We have only one year at the Officer’s Academy, and there is only one White Heron Cup. I know from conversation with many alumni that, even at its most mediocre, it is a night that sticks in the memory. I do genuinely wish it to be a positive memory for all of us.” He was blushing anew. Ugh. Sincerity was, as Leonie might have put it, ‘the pits.’

“...And this will help you have a happy memory of the night?” Claude asked. The expression on his face was—different from his usual infuriating facade of impish amusement.

“Well, proper preparations are unlikely to _hurt,_ ” Lorenz pointed out quite reasonably. Claude sighed and rolled his eyes, but the sting such a reaction might engender was softened by the soft smile that played around his lips.

“Fine. Come by my room after dinner tonight,” he said.

As House Leader, Claude was entitled to augment his formal uniform with embellishments in their house color. Lorenz was therefore unsurprised to see that he was sporting a golden half-cape over his formal jacket. It was showy. It was gauche. It was also, to Lorenz’s frustration, very flattering and exactly right for the person Claude was.

“I clean up good, yeah?” Claude asked. He turned half-away from Lorenz, cocked his hip, and shot him a, a look over his shoulder. His laughing green eyes were half-lidded, those impossible brows cocked, and there was a hint of a smile playing around his lips. The overall effect was ~~smoldering~~ ridiculous. Absurd.

The uniform fit Claude perfectly. The trousers emphasized the elegant lines of his legs. The jacket enhanced his broad shoulders and laid smoothly across his ~~firm~~ chest. The collar’s fit was a bit atypical, especially with the addition of the half-cape, but Claude clearly intended to leave the top button undone, which Lorenz was forced to admit did cause said collar to loosely frame the smooth, creamy brown column of the other man’s neck. When he turned his head just so, the tendons of his neck stood out. Claude grinned, turned to face Lorenz once more. He hooked his hands behind his head, and the points of his collarbones peeked out. They looked very—Oh, there was the impish amusement. Ahem.

“Well? Anywhere I’ve got a single thread loose or my buttons don’t match my cummerbund?” Claude asked.

“You aren’t wearing a cummerbund,” Lorenz said. Claude grinned.

“You sure about that?”

“Of course I am,” Lorenz said. Honestly, a cummerbund with that jacket? The notion was foolish in the extreme. No tailor would allow such a thing. He looked down. “Are you going to wear those boots?”

“Yeah. What else would I wear?” Claude kicked out one foot to put said boots on better display.

“They should be shined,” Lorenz said. They were well enough for day-to-day wear, but they were too scuffed for a _formal_ event.

“Oh, really, you’re going to shine my shoes for me? Thanks, Lorenz,” Claude said.

“Nice try, von Riegan,” Lorenz said, for once amused by his house leader’s antics. “But no.” Honestly, himself, kneeling on the ground to shine Claude’s boots? Ridiculous. Absurd. “You can borrow my boot polish if you require it, however.” It was highest quality, of course.

“Wow, thanks, you’re so generous,” Claude said sarcastically.

Lorenz had a sudden premonition: Claude, House Leader of the Golden Deer, heir to the von Reigan line, possible (fine, probable) future leader of the Alliance, striding into the White Heron Cup festivities in scuffed, _disreputable_ footwear. Good gracious.

“…Change back and remove your boots,” Lorenz sighed. “I will retrieve my boot polish and we can address the problem together.”

“Come again?”

“I’ll do one boot if you do the other,” Lorenz translated. Honestly. When he looked up, he saw—oh, that, that might be genuine surprise on his rival’s face. Lorenz couldn’t help but smile. Surprise was a good look on— _ahem._ Lorenz and his interests would be well-served if he could take his rival unawares more often. “Unless you’re too good to shine your own shoes?”

“Not me, nope,” Claude said, schooling that infuriating half-smile back onto his face. Fine.

Lorenz’s room was adjacent to Claude’s, so it was the work of a moment to retrieve the polish and return.

“Oh, my—sorry, sorry,” Lorenz said, covering his eyes. Claude was, was undressing—

So much for Lorenz doing the surprising for once.

“No problem,” Claude said. Lorenz—accidentally uncovered his eyes, caught an unintentional glimpse of, of a muscled chest with a light dusting of hair—kept his eyes firmly closed.

He kept them closed until Claude said, at length, “Okay, I’m decent.” He sounded inappropriately entertained. Lorenz regretted offering to help him with his boots, but he had done it and a true noble kept his word.

It was not as much of a trial as it could have been. Claude, again, proved himself an able and engaging conversationalist with an astute (if unaccountably strange) grasp of not just the Leicester political landscape, but that of the surrounding territories as well. Curse him.

Lorenz dreamed of—boot polish, and impeccably fitted collars, and, and— _tailoring._ He dreamed of tailoring.

It was very hard to get enough sleep when one was dreaming of tailoring. (It was also hard to get enough sleep when one had to do laundry in the wee hours of the morning, cheeks burning with shame, eyes burning from lack of sleep, so as not to draw undue attention to one’s, one’s allegedly healthy and not-abnormal but regrettably adolescent and masculine physiology.)

In fact, Lorenz’s sleep deprivation got so severe that he misfastened his jacket one morning. Fortunately, Leonie noticed over breakfast, saving Lorenz the ignominy of being seen in such a disreputable state by too many others. Being a woman of action, she also, ah, remedied the problem herself?

In his family home, with a full complement of servants, Lorenz was accustomed to having assistance with his dress, but—Leonie was _not_ in service to the Gloucester household. The very notion was so alarming (she would be a terrible servant, by Cethleann’s mercy, and she was his—his friend, and his classmate, and comrade, and, and the mind simply rebelled at the notion) and unexpected that Lorenz was shocked into allowing her to rebuton his jacket.

“All better,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. Then she—pulled him into an embrace. Goddess and all Saints, what was happening. “There, now, no worries,” she continued. _Oh._ Oh, that was what was happening. She was—she was comforting him, in her own way. She must have—sensed his distress somehow, although there was no way she could have ascertained the cause. That made so much more sense. Lorenz relaxed, let his own arms come to rest on her. She was warm, and surprisingly small. She patted his back, at once careless and sincere. “I’ve got you, you’re good, you’re fine,” she said. That was—probably not true, but it was kind of her to say. Lorenz relaxed a little more, let himself just—feel it, for just a moment. For someone so rough around the edges, she could be very warm.

He made himself sit back up. He was most certainly blushing, but—well, there were worse things, he supposed. 

“Ah—thank you,” he said. “I do feel better now.” 

“I’m glad,” Leonie said simply. She stood. “I’m getting seconds. Do you want egg or sausage?”

“Neither,” Lorenz declined. He had his oatmeal, thank you. 

“You’re getting eggs,” she said, and took herself away. Lorenz shook his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: ~~PROM~~ The White Heron Cup  
> \--  
> RECS  
> 1\. [Fever 'Til You Sizzle (what a lovely way to burn) by nonisland](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25369270). Summary: _Sylvain has an ill-advised accidental encounter with a medicinal plant, and Mercedes offers to minimize the negative effects._ It's a sex pollen fic, and it's _so good_ oh my god it gave me Feelings, and you gotta check it out :)  
> 2\. Not a fic, but a poem! [Useless Bay by Sarah Kay.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TmQSFGJS454) I'm sure Lorenz adheres to established poetic forms, but I dunno maybe if he heard some of Kay's poetry performed he'd be tempted to dabble in *gasp* free verse or slam? (disclaimer: i don't actually have any Lorenz poetry headcanons, so go ahead and infect me with yours)  
> \--  
> Comments are a delight :)


	3. the White Heron Cup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Shall we dance?” Lorenz asked, bowing elegantly with one hand outstretched.

“I,” Leonie said, “May be the greatest friend that ever lived.” Lorenz heroically resisted the urge to roll his eyes at her.

“Nice to see you found your way into the celebratory wine,” he said. He wasn’t looking at her, but her self-satisfaction was practically palpable.

Lorenz, naturally, was immaculate, smartly turned out in his perfectly fitted (and perfectly flattering) formal uniform and hair meticulously styled. In fact, all the Golden Deer were putting on an utterly respectable (Lorenz might even say admirable, if boasting were not utterly gauche) showing. The women’s formal uniform featured a tea length skirt with elegant gold decorations and a cropped jacket befitting a future military officer. On Leonie, it looked jaunty. Lorenz was pleased to note that her hair shone like new copper and Hilda had done a masterful job on her makeup. 

“You haven’t thanked me for,” Leonie gestured in the general direction of Marianne, “that.” Lorenz did not need her indication to locate Marianne. Marianne was, quite without realizing it, the focal point of the room.

It was the magic of tailoring that the same uniform Leonie was wearing made _Marianne_ look—breathtaking. Utterly elegant, unspeakably refined. Not that she needed the help. Chips of crystal glittered in her customary crown braids, and the rest of her hair had been left free to cascade down her back in gentle waves. It shone more beautifully than the finest silk and looked softer than the first kiss of springtime. A few locks curled artfully around her face, framing her delicate features. Hilda had used a delicate touch on Marianne’s makeup, just enough to emphasize the beauty that had always been there. There was a shimmer to Marianne that had to be due to powdered mica or some other feat of Hilda’s artistry, otherwise Lorenz would have to believe that Marianne was glowing. The whole effect put Lorenz in mind of the full moon: ethereal, untouchable, impossible to turn away from.

Lorenz felt that his heart was breaking and being remade just from looking at her.

“Ask her to dance,” Leonie said, neatly breaking the spell that had taken hold of Lorenz. Lorenz startled. Somehow, Leonie still existed, and she was here. “You’re a great dancer, right?”

“Well, I,” Lorenz began, then hesitated. Leonie looked at him oddly. Lorenz pulled himself together. “Of course. I was merely waiting for the opportune moment.” Was it a lie? He didn’t think so. He was going to ask Marianne to dance, after all. Good manners required that he ask all the ladies of his house to dance at some point tonight.

“Attaboy,” Leonie said. Lorenz gave into the temptation to roll his eyes. There was something about Leonie that was just—the antithesis of poetry. It was almost impossible to think of Leonie and poetry in the same sentence. She was so utterly—driven, practical, robust. Rustic.

“Not a suitable way to address your betters,” he reminded her. She shrugged with no evidence of remorse and took herself off to—the refreshments table. Of course she did.

Unfortunately, in removing herself from Lorenz’s presence, she also removed his current excuse to put off asking Marianne to dance. Darn.

“Shall we dance?” Lorenz asked, bowing elegantly with one hand outstretched. Lysithea gave him a strange look.

“Only if you promise not to talk about politics,” she said. Lorenz got the impression she was not joking. 

“Not one word,” he promised. Her expression softened, and she took his hand and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor. 

“I haven’t done this before,” she admitted in an uncharacteristically soft voice. “I mean,” she added, sounding more like herself, “I’ve danced before. I had lessons of course. Just not at a ball.”

“It’s very much like lessons, but with nicer clothing,” Lorenz offered. To his surprise, she smiled.

Lysithea danced almost exactly as Lorenz would have imagined: she displayed evidence of rigorous technical and intellectual understanding but none of the natural sway and rhythm that came from real-world experience. Which is to say, she was a little stiff and a little uncertain, but she had no difficulties following Lorenz’s lead. They spun around the dance floor, each step utterly precise.

Somewhere towards the halfway point of the song, Lysithea’s expression of fierce concentration faded and softened, and she—looked up and smiled. She would have hated to hear it, but Lorenz thought that, surprised by happiness, Lysithea somehow contrived to look much younger than her years, unweighted by her usual preoccupations. Lorenz smiled. For half the length of one song, she smiled back, bright and unfettered.

Consistent with Lorenz’s past experiences, the first dance seemed to ‘open the floodgates.’ Invitations to dance came quickly and consistently after that, and Lorenz found himself quite engaged. He danced with Edelgard, with Petra, and even with Flayn (under her brother’s disapproving glower). Hilda found him when he was partaking of the refreshments. 

“Aren’t you just dancing the night away. Have time for little old me?” she asked brightly. Lorenz smiled. Marianne was dancing with Ignatz. She was radiant. Claude was dancing with Annette. Lysithea was dancing with—Dorothea? Oh, yes, women did that sort of thing sometimes. He’d never bothered to decide if they were lucky or unlucky to have twice as many potential dance partners. Leonie was dancing with Felix, who looked annoyed.

“Always, my dear,” he said, setting his plate aside and gracing her with his most elegant bow. She giggled and extended a hand in the most maidenly and correct fashion. They took the floor at the next song. 

Hilda was a wonderful dancer. She was bright, vivacious, confident—and joyful. She sparkled. Her beauty had a generous quality that seemed to light up the people with whom she came into contact. Of course Lorenz was handsome, well-bred, and well-mannered, but for the length of time that Hilda was in his arms, he also knew himself to be entertaining and helpful and worthy.

Hilda had been heard to comment that the Gonerils bore not a single magical bone in their collective bodies, but she did have an enchantment that was all her own. When the song came to an end, he was at once sorry to have to let her go and contented to have had the dance in the first place. She smiled at him, touched the spot on his lapel where he normally pinned his red rose. 

“Perfect,” she said, and he fancied that she truly meant it. 

“Thank you for the dance,” he said sincerely, and she smiled.

“I don’t understand that guy at all,” Leonie said, appearing at Lorenz’s elbow. He raised a brow at her but continued sipping his drink. Dancing was thirsty work. 

“My cousin?” he asked, using the noun-form that indicated a degree of relatedness several times removed.

“No, Felix,” Leonie corrected, still looking out at the dance floor. “I offered to move it out to the training yard, but I think he really did want to dance. Scowled the whole time, too.”

“My cousin,” Lorenz repeated. He had the rare pleasure of seeing her shocked—not merely surprised or startled, but truly, deeply shocked. She expressed her disbelief in a vulgar exclamation. “It’s true. Some generations ago, a Gloucester man married a Fraldarius woman and moved to that cold, hostile land. His treatise on the culture is invaluable.”

“You—you are full of surprises,” Leonie said with admiration. Lorenz preened. The Goddess would laugh to see him preening over anything to do with his connection to the Fraldarius boy. “Ooh, I’m about to become the best friend _ever_ ,” she said, and darted away. That was ominous. Lorenz tried to spot her in the crowd as he finished his drink, but she was lost in the crowd. Oh, dear.

To Lorenz’s horror but no surprise, Leonie returned a short time later with Marianne in tow.

“Your turn,” she said cheerfully. “All the Deer have to dance together, Hanneman said so. Have fun!” And then she left.

Lorenz looked at Marianne. His heart was pounding, and he was very aware of all the places his clothes didn’t quite fit right and his hair wasn’t quite behaving. She was simply beautiful. Her cheeks were flushed slightly—likely from Leonie’s, ugh, machinations, or the heat of the room, or some other reason—and the blush of color brought her to life, made her seem less like a divine apparition and more like his shy, kindhearted, mysterious, beautiful classmate. He bowed and extended a hand to her in invitation. Her dark eyes regarded him solemnly but she put her hand in hers and allowed him to lead him to the dance floor. 

Professor Hanneman had clearly known what he was doing when he’d selected Marianne to be their house’s representative for the White Heron Cup. Marianne moved with grace, poise, and fluidity on the dance floor.

“Congratulations on your well-deserved victory,” Lorenz said, and felt like a dolt. It was late into the evening, she was surely tired of hearing congratulations. Nevertheless, Marianne smiled shyly. 

“Thank you,” she said. “I wasn’t at all sure what the professor was thinking when he selected me, but now that I’ve learned more about the underlying magical principles I’m a little excited.” 

“Really?” Lorenz asked. He had no notion that she was interested in magical theory. Such persons were usually much more overt in their interests. “I’m familiar with the major arcane and divine branches of magic, but I confess I’m not familiar with the Dancer’s underpinnings…?” Lorenz had, of course, been a top-tier student at the Kingdom School of Sorcery, but he had specialized in arcane magic. 

Marianne smiled, and—oh, she really was lovely. Lorenz’s heart gave a squeeze—and began to speak. “It’s a unique form of magic, actually. Somatic components are common in reason and faith spells, of course, but they’re much more prominent in danced magic. What I didn’t realize was that the way dances make use of material components is completely different…”

Lorenz fancied his feet hardly touched the ground as they spun across the dance floor, listening to Marianne speak breathlessly about this new form of magic. He’d never seen her so animated, so unfettered by—whatever secrets normally bowed her shoulders, kept her limbs tucked in and her head down like she was trying to disappear. He was fascinated and enraptured. Lorenz liked talking about magical theory as much as the next impeccably bred, flawlessly educated young noble (in fact, it was possible that by some standards, he enjoyed magical theory too much to the detriment of his martial skills) but this was something new.

“In truth? The flourishes on the dancer ensemble serve a practical purpose?” he asked. Marianne nodded. 

“I thought they were just geegaws,” she said, “But the ornaments on the belt, at least, help channel the magic and improve the spell’s effects, and I suspect the other ornaments do too.” She blushed abruptly, and added, “Although I do believe some features of the ensemble are purely for aesthetic effect.” 

“Aesthetics are important. If we were to lay our aesthetic sensibilities aside, even for the duration of one skirmish, we would be little more than barbarians,” Lorenz said gravely. Marianne didn’t giggle aloud, but she did let out an amused breath. Lorenz smiled and hoped it didn’t look as besotted as he feared. They spun on to the accompaniment of the music and the arcane jargon pouring from Marianne’s lips. 

“That looked magical, your dance with Marianne,” Leonie said. She had a cup in her hand but didn't seem to be paying it much mind. “Was it magical?” She was leaning against a pillar and looked uncharacteristically wistful.

“Are you okay?” Lorenz asked. She startled, looked at him, nodded.

“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know.” Truly, he did not. She was not the sort to be… morose when there was food and festivity to enjoy.

“I’m fine, Lorenz.” She grinned ruefully into the middle distance, which was such an obvious sign of falsehood that Lorenz didn’t know what to make of it. She turned that crooked grin on him, and it was a relief that at least she was dry-eyed.

“If you want to talk…” 

“I’ll tell you later, how’s that.” 

“Acceptable,” Lorenz said. For want of anything else to say, he asked, “Do you want a drink and some food?” She grinned at him, bright and almost back to Leonie-normal.

“Now you’re talking my language. Let’s go.” They went. Lorenz intended to be especially solicitous, pouring his friend’s drink and helping her select the finest morsels, but Leonie seemed to be channeling Raphael and opting for quantity over quality. And—“Here,” she said, and added something that looked delectable to Lorenz’s plate. “These too, they’re good.” Well. Fine then.

They left the refreshments and circulated the room. He should probably, as a noble, inform her that adding food to a companion’s plate was gauche, but the hour was late and he—Goddess forgive him—just couldn’t find the motivation. Leonie’s selections for Lorenz’s plate _were_ delicious.

“I kissed a guy tonight, and he seemed really into it, but it turns out he has feelings for someone else, and then the other person showed up…” Leonie said through a mouth full of food. Lorenz nearly choked. “It was a whole thing. Really threw me off my stride, you know?”

“What?” 

“I mean, I wasn’t in love with him, and when I sneaked out, they looked like maybe they were working it out, which is good, but I really wasn’t expecting it, you know? If he’d just been honest about wanting to use me to get his crush’s attention, that’s one thing, but to be underhanded about it was just unnecessary. Kind of rubbed me the wrong way, even though I know he’s not really that kind of person.”

“Excuse me? What—?” Lorenz began, then didn’t know how to finish. Leonie nodded as she chewed.

“Exactly.”

“Who?” Lorenz demanded.

“I can’t tell you that, that wouldn’t be nice,” Leonie said, looking at him with raised brows. As if he was being the erratic one. “Are you okay?”

“Am _I_ okay? I’m not the one who was—taken advantage of—”

“Whoa, it was nothing like that,” Leonie said.

“ _Used_ , then, like some kind of, of game piece instead of being treated like a person—”

“Whoa, Lorenz, calm down. They’re still in the room,” Leonie said, glancing around.

“Where,” he demanded. “Show me.”

“Noooo,” Leonie said slowly, still looking utterly thrown.

“Was it Claude?” Claude was a better man than Lorenz had first believed, but he was inclined to resort to trickery, and if he had used Leonie in such an unsavory gambit—

“What? No, we’re not doing the guessing game, Lorenz,” Leonie said, and laughed. She was. Laughing at him. Lorenz considered her. She… really didn’t seem upset.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Lorenz said belatedly. “You didn’t deserve that.”

“I’m mostly annoyed he didn’t just bring me in on it from the start,” Leonie said, frowning absently. “I’m great at getting people together.”

“You are not.”

“Okay, fine, I’m not. But if I’d known what the game is, we could’ve made a good show of it, you know? Instead of just—well, anyway. I guess it all worked out?”

“Good?” Lorenz echoed, temporarily taking on the dreadful habit of speaking declarative statements as questions. “And you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” 

“I am glad,” Lorenz said sincerely. Leonie took another sip of her drink. A thought occurred to Lorenz. “Was it my cousin?” Leonie choked on her drink. 

“I already told you, we’re not playing the guessing game,” she managed after she finished coughing.

“Was it someone you danced with tonight?” Lorenz persisted. Leonie laughed. 

“You know what, I’m going to throw you a bone. Yes.”

“Well that narrows it down to—wait, how many people…?”

“A lot, Lorenz. Apparently I’m just bad enough of a dancer to seem approachable, and just good enough to make it fun. Dorothea told me that.”

“But we can eliminate the women, since you said ‘he,’ and—gracious, you didn’t dance with both parties, did you?” Lorenz asked. Leonie laughed.

“Did I?”

“You are a headache incarnate,” Lorenz informed her. Leonie grinned and finished the last of her drink. 

“Help me fill out my dance card,” she said, and extended a hand. Lorenz, still trying to ascertain the identity of Leonie’s mystery man, accepted.

Leonie danced unremarkably. She followed Lorenz’s lead and looked down at their feet more than he expected, but otherwise she was just—Leonie. Shorter than him, stocky, red hair, the antithesis of poetry.

“Who was your favorite dance partner tonight?” Lorenz asked. Leonie gave him a look, and he enjoyed the terribly common indulgence of rolling his eyes. “As if _he,_ whoever he is, would have been your favorite dance partner.”

“He might have been,” Leonie said because she was a terrible friend who delighted in tormenting him. “Maybe Ignatz? Alois was fun too.”

“You’re kidding,” Lorenz said flatly. Leonie smiled beatifically. 

“He was my first dance of the evening.”

“Did you talk about Jeralt the whole time?”

“Just about,” Leonie admitted easily. “And his wife.”

“Well.” Lorenz said. “Fine then.” Leonie laughed.

“Your cousin knows how to move it on the dance floor, by the way, but he’s not as smooth as Sylvain.”

“Please tell me you did not dance with that cad.”

“You wouldn’t want me to lie to you like that,” she said wickedly. Lorenz sighed and spun her. “What about you? Was your favorite Marianne?”

“I believe we’re discussing _your_ dance partners,” Lorenz said, aware that he was reddening.

“She looked happy. She normally doesn’t smile in crowds.”

“That’s true,” Lorenz said. “I hope she enjoyed herself as much as I did.” His cheeks were probably fully red at this point. 

“I can’t make fun of you if you’re going to be this honest,” Leonie complained. “Spin me again.” He did. Perhaps unsurprisingly, she seemed to enjoy the more physically involved portions of the dance—spins and lifts—and having capitulated to her demands once, Lorenz found himself doing so again. It was different from the other dances he’d had that evening, the moves strung together for the fun of doing them rather than elegance, convention, or simple good taste. 

The dance wrapped up, and he led to the edge of the dance floor and graced her with his most proper bow. She returned a decent curtsy of her own, grinning broadly. 

“I think I’ll let that be my last dance of the night,” she said, looking around with one hand on her hip. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Lorenz said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when I first started this chapter, I was like "AW YEAH Leonie dressed up nice! I'm gonna describe her!" but... Lorenz... and Marianne... and Leonie's not really one to spend much time describing herself so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ LET THE RECORD SHOW that Leonie was really fuckin cute on the night of the bird dance, thank you  
> \--  
> I legit stole the idea of Lorenz and Felix being related from [A Treatise on Faerghus Traditions, Rituals of the Old North and Customs of Tribal Law](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20729432/chapters/49248911) by Antartique. If you haven't read that one yet, please give it a look and leave a nice comment.  
> \--  
> RECS  
> 1.[Seven Kisses](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21940096) by littlecakes. _Ignatz receives kisses from all of the Golden Deer._  
>  2\. Drink a big glass of water and maybe stretch your legs a bit. That's it, that's the rec.  
> \--  
> I gave Marianne an interest in magical theory because the only way I know how to flirt is to babble at length about Cool Stuff. Also because I was driving around for a week daydreaming about how the Dancer class works, because the in-universe explanation is unimpressive and _it works like magic_ , there's gotta be, like, some magic involved??  
> \--  
> Next chapter: 4am insomniac conversations


	4. liminal hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorenz was still awake long after the White Heron Cup and attendant ball had ended.

Lorenz was still awake long after the White Heron Cup and attendant ball had ended. It had reached those liminal hours where a convincing argument could be made for it being very late or very early, and Lorenz was enjoying—if such a word applied—the deceptive clear-headedness that characterized a particular phase of sleep deprivation.

The monastery seemed particularly dark and still after the noise and lights of the White Heron Cup. Lorenz found himself wandering past the students’ quarters, past the greenhouse, and into the area surrounding the fishing pond. The lights from the greenhouse barely illuminated a familiar figure sitting at the end of the pier. 

“Of course it’s you,” she said as he approached. She sounded amused. Lorenz was about to say something similar. “Why are you still awake?”

“Why are you?” Lorenz asked, sitting next to her. She huffed and leaned back. She, like him, was in what he assumed was her sleeping attire: an overlarge shirt and leggings.

“I wish I knew.” She looked overhead, and Lorenz found himself following her gaze. “It’s nice tonight.” That was an understatement. It was a beautiful night, the inky darkness of the sky relieved by wispy clouds that curled softly in the wind. They alternately veiled and revealed the pinpoint stars, which were breathtaking in their number. Leonie broke Lorenz’s reverie by saying, “Wanna go for a run?”

“I do hope you’re joking,” Lorenz sighed. Leonie laughed quietly.

“Mostly. But if you’ve never gone nightrunning, I do recommend it. Not in an unfamiliar forest, though. Good way to break an ankle or run into a bear.”

“As if you wouldn’t relish the opportunity to wrestle a bear.”

“How great would that be?”

“Terrible,” Lorenz informed her. She laughed quietly again.

“Wanna spar?” she offered. “Hand-to-hand, or unarmed versus magic.” 

“You are a lunatic,” Lorenz said. She laughed outright. “We can’t fight in our sleep clothes.”

“Is it not in keeping with the highest standards of noble behavior?” she asked. 

“Something like that,” Lorenz agreed. Leonie shrugged and kicked her feet lazily over the water.  
“You looked pretty pleased earlier, but did you get all the dances you wanted?”

“I did,” Lorenz said. He scooted back and crossed his legs loosely. “And before you ask, my dance with Marianne was simply divine.”

“I’m glad. You gonna marry her?”

It was easier to be honest in the darkness. “It’s hard to say. Marriages between noble houses involve a lot of negotiations, especially if the parties in question are the heirs of their houses. If I write to my father, he might choose to open negotiations with the Margrave of Edmund. If the Margrave is amenable, then a betrothal contract can be worked out… But I’d really rather not write to my father if it would bring personal or familial hardship to the lady in question.” 

“You wanna be sure she likes you back before you start working on the paperwork.”

“In essence,” Lorenz nodded. “It is a long and grueling process, and not for the faint of heart. Faster to do it the commoner way. Meet, fall in love, get on with things.”

“Mm. My parents were an arranged marriage, you know,” she said. 

“Really? I thought comm—I mean, I didn’t know—”

“You assumed they were a love match because I’m a commoner,” Leonie said. “They were arranged. Neighboring villages. They grew to love each other.”

“I am glad,” Lorenz said because what else was one supposed to say. His own parents had been an arranged marriage, and while they worked, he did not believe they loved each other. Possibly they did not even really like each other, but some questions did not bear asking. Their personal incompatibilities may have factored into his own desire to find a bridal candidate of his own before one was chosen for him. Just possibly. Into the night, he said, “The happiest couple I ever knew was the housekeeper and her husband. They were commoners, obviously. They were a love match.” Leonie made an inquisitive noise. Lorenz continued, “She was a terrifying woman. She ruled beneath the stairs with an iron fist. But when she and her husband were in the room… They always seemed to turn towards each other, like flowers following the sun.” He could picture it clearly as he stared into the heavens above. “They never did anything improper, obviously, but you could see the, the _love_ there.” His face grew warm just saying it aloud. “It was in their faces and the way they spoke to each other and the way they would just look at each other from across the room and smile.” He—wanted that. He’d been raised to think of his duty of his family and their people, but in the darkness he could just about admit to himself that he wanted—that, to marry someone who looked at him like that, who made him feel like that.

“Commoners have arranged marriages just like nobles,” Leonie said slowly. Lorenz stared into the sparkling, impersonal stars. “But love matches do happen. The couples I know… probably about half. Maybe a little less.”

“When a marriage is arranged,” Lorenz said, “It is important to consider not only the politics of the families in question, but what sort of message might be sent by the match.” Into the beautifully calm night, he found himself spilling out—what felt like all his most ugly, unbefitting gripes. Lines of succession, division of resources, mercilessly combing through each family tree for signs of—of weakness or immorality, _endless_ negotiations… He—it was so petty, so ugly, to whine about this aspect of nobility to—to a commoner, to someone from his own territories. He knew he shouldn’t, knew it was just how things were, knew he wasn’t special for wishing the world were otherwise, but there was something about—about the night, the lateness of the hour, about the company that unstuck his tongue— “Negotiations must be especially delicate if there is a disparity in the families’ inclinations,” Lorenz was saying, “They—”

“Okay, I think I get it,” Leonie interrupted, mercifully. She—didn’t sound annoyed, somehow. He didn’t know why. “Our arranged marriages are a lot less complicated than yours. We might have money or a business or debts, but we don’t have all of that. We don’t have as much, but in this one case it _might_ mean we have more freedom.”

“Dynasties have fallen in the face of uncircumspect marriages. Factions have risen to power. In light of all other considerations, the personal feelings of the bride and groom seem petty. And yet.” _And yet._ Finally, finally his voice left him. He—he felt—oh, dear. Lorenz made himself stare into the night, minded himself to breathe, with limited success.

“You’re still human,” Leonie said unexpectedly. “Of course you want to marry someone you love.”

“I _want,_ ” he said, and could not continue. 

At length, Leonie said, “You want…?” Lorenz closed his eyes, gathered his thoughts. He pushed away thoughts of, of the housekeeper and her silly husband, the way they smiled like they were the only two in the room. He thought of his mother, her beauty and her determination and her exquisite self-control. He thought of his father, his signet ring, the way he mastered his emotions even and especially when faced with impossible choices. Lorenz breathed.

“I _will_ be the next head of House Gloucester. I will lead my house, and lead it well. My family has held our lands since Tiberius Gloucester. The land, the people, everything will be mine. My purpose. My responsibility. It’s what I was raised for. It’s what I was born for.” He took a deep breath, remembered his father’s appraising expression, his mother’s sharp eyes. Their pride when they looked at him. “I may never lead the Alliance, but the Gloucester lands are mine. And in time, they will be my heir’s, for as long as our family can hold them.”

Silence settled over them like a blanket. Lorenz felt—cracked open, exposed. He waited. He breathed.

“Well,” Leonie said at length. “I don’t agree with all your old man’s decisions, but I know he’s doing one thing right. His heir’s on the right path, I’d say.” 

Lorenz surprised himself by laughing. It was so—absurd, so Leonie. Such a, a banal and unlovely thing to say. As he laughed, he felt—light. He rolled to face her, saw she was still staring at the sky. Oh, what a person.

“He is,” she said, unfazed. “Bit of an odd duck from time to time, but not too bad. I think he’ll do a good job.” And Lorenz was still laughing, but her words caught him in the chest and _oh._

“I am glad,” Lorenz whispered.

“I’m glad I’m from Gloucester, at any rate. Could do a lot worse.” As if she was talking about, about the weather, or the price of wheat.

“Thank you, Leonie,” Lorenz said. She turned her head to face him. She smiled.

“It is what it is,” she said nonsensically.

“Indeed. Although I believe your original question was whether I intend to wed Marianne.” Having been cracked open, he found himself—wanting to open himself further. He felt, obliquely, as though he should offer her—something, after all of—that. And she did so enjoy picking at his, his alleged infatuation.

“Oh, yeah.” She was still smiling. She looked at him, as if to say, _Well?_

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “As you are aware, I find her—very beautiful, and I enjoy her company, but these things, betrothals, are hard to predict.”

“Do you want to?” Leonie asked. As if that was the deciding factor.

“I don’t know,” he repeated. “I do like her, but I don’t know if I want to _marry_ her. How does anyone know?”

“I think it’s supposed to be obvious,” Leonie said. She looked thoughtful. “Can you imagine it?”

“I can imagine it. I’m just not sure if I want it.” 

“Oh?” Leonie, when Lorenz peered at her, looked confused. 

“Can you imagine being married to, I don’t know, Ignatz?” He liked, sometimes, to observe Ignatz and Raphael and Leonie together. There was a warmth of camaraderie there that was pleasing. (Once, he had walked into the classroom to see—Leonie, reading aloud to Raphael from a textbook. She was sitting with her feet on the table; he was lying on one of the benches, hands hooked behind his head. Ignatz had been sitting next to Leonie, cheek resting on one hand, sketching with the other, nodding along to the cadence of her words. When she’d stumbled on a name, he’d interjected quietly, offering up the pronunciation; she nodded, kept reading; Raphael smiled at the ceiling. Lorenz had left silently rather than break the tableau.)

“Uh, sure?”

“You get along with him. You’re friends. He’s a kind person, and he likes to make other people happy,” Lorenz prompted. “You’re imagining it?”

“I… am?” Leonie said, not sounding certain.

“How he’d look at your wedding,” Lorenz listed, “Whether he’d help around the house, what he’d be like with the children.”

“ _Um?_ ” Lorenz had never heard Leonie _squeak_ before.

“Children, if you had them. Would he be a good father?” Lorenz coaxed.

“I… guess so?” Her face was contorting with the effort of imagining it.

“You’re making a face.”

“I sure fucking am,” Leonie said.

“Because…?”

“Children? What the hell, Lorenz?”

“So you like Ignatz, as a person, and you can imagine being married to him, but that doesn’t mean you want to marry him,” Lorenz said. “Yes?”

“What? Fine, I guess so. Point made, I guess.” Leonie said. Her expression smoothed out and she cocked her head. Her eyes found him easily, despite the darkness. “But you _do_ want children, and marriage, and all that. It matters to you.”

“I do,” Lorenz said, “But when I think about with _whom_ —” He stopped, shook his head.

“It all falls apart?”

“Not how I would have phrased it, but perhaps.” That sounded rather too dire, thank you.

“Well,” Leonie said, “That sucks.” Lorenz laughed. Ah, the very spirit of it summed up in two words. She laughed too.

When they settled, he looked at her and asked, “You really don’t think about it?” She was looking at the starry tapestry of the night sky, expression calm. “Really?”

“Hm?”

“Marriage, children, _legacy._ You don’t think about it?”

“Honestly, no? I like kissing, and sex is fun, but marriage? What’s that about.” Lorenz’s cheeks burned with discomfort to hear her so casually refer to—that. Kissing, intercourse. How could she think on them so lightly?

“It is a foundation on which to build a future,” Lorenz said. Leonie shrugged. Impossible person. 

“I already have a future I want to build, and I’m already working on it just by being here,” she said. Oh. It was probably the lateness of the hour, but he could almost—see it. Leonie Pinelli, the Blade Breaker come again. Lance slung across her shoulder, one hand on her hip, grinning ferociously at some new challenge. But—

“Even Jeralt had a child,” Lorenz said, though he knew not why.

“That doesn’t mean _I_ have to.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t. You can’t surpass someone by following in their exact footsteps, after all. At some point you must break new ground,” Lorenz agreed. Oh. And, Goddess forgive him, but he pictured Marianne, in the future, pale and lovely and mysterious and refined—and sad, always with that unnamed grief—and his chest ached, deep and complicated and fond and hurting— “And just because you feel one way about a person at eighteen doesn’t mean you’ll always feel that way.”

“People grow and change, all the time. Nothing wrong with that,” Leonie said. As if anything was that simple. She was looking at the sky. Lorenz rolled onto his back, breathed deeply.

“Nothing wrong with that,” he echoed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Q: should I like... be noting sideships (e.g., crushes) somewhere, so people can have the option of being forewarned? Not in the main tags (that would be mean) but like in the end notes?  
> -  
> Fun fact: I really wanted to write a scene where Lorenz and Ignatz walk into a room where Leonie was reading love poetry aloud to Raphael and they were both like ???? I changed it to history because it seems more plausible they'd be assigned to read history than poetry at Garreg Mach :\


	5. dance practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Lorenz, I am worried about you,” Leonie said. 
> 
> “If you were truly worried for me, you wouldn’t be taking that tone,” Lorenz said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy a chapter! next one's... "cause of sorrow" (σ ´゜д゜)σ

The next day, Leonie woke him up at an ungodly hour of the morning by knocking on his door. He was barely mollified by the pastries she’d brought. 

“Lorenz, I am worried about you,” Leonie said. She was sitting on his bed and getting crumbs on it. He was sitting next to her. Well, it was _his_ bed. If crumbs were going to get on it, he might as well contribute. “You might actually die.”

“If you were truly worried for me, you wouldn’t be taking that tone,” Lorenz said, shredding his breakfast roll into smaller pieces. It was too early to be eating.

“I peeked on Marianne’s dance lessons. You will die,” Leonie said with relish. Lorenz—pictured the Dancer uniform again. Fantastic.

“Why do you torment me?” he asked.

“I’m just trying to give you a heads-up, Lorenz,” Leonie said mildly. “Like a good friend.”

“Pegasus blessings,” Lorenz muttered, the curse slipping out. 

“ _Lorenz,_ such _language,_ ” Leonie gasped. Oh no, to use such language, and in the presence of a lady—wait.

“Please allow me to extend my sincerest apologies, Miss Pinelli,” he said dryly. “I was overcome. It will not happen again.”

“See that it does not, sir,” Leonie said severely. She sounded very much like one of his childhood tutors, which was deeply surreal. “Anyway, she’s in back-to-back lessons all day. Dancer training is intense. I’m jealous.”

“Technically, you’re envious,” Lorenz said, putting a bit of bread into his mouth. It wasn’t bad. “Jealousy is when—”

“Ugh, thank you, Lord Gloucester,” Leonie interrupted. “I’m _envious_ she has such a demanding training program. Imagine how good we would get if we did nothing but train all the time.”

“That’s what you do already, is it not?” Lorenz said, eating another piece of bread. She was always rushing about doing this or that. 

“Aw, thanks,” Leonie said. “Anyway. Cheering Marianne on during her Dancer training. You in?”

“Would it not distract her from her lessons to have an audience?” Lorenz asked, feeling fretful. He—he wasn’t opposed to showing his support, but he didn’t want to detract—

“Then will you help me bring her a snack halfway through the morning?” Leonie asked. “I thought some nice rabbit skewers or cheese and jerky.”

“You know she dislikes that,” Lorenz said severely. Rabbit skewers and jerky, honestly, they were _not_ to Marianne’s liking. Leonie widened her eyes at him, blinked exaggeratedly. 

“Does she? But that’s all I have on hand,” she said. Lies.

“Bring her something sweet, you savage,” he said. “I have some very fine peach preserve cookies that pair quite excellently with a delicate white tea—”

“Sounds perfect, Lorenz. I’ll be sure to stop by here before I go over to see her,” Leonie said. Wha—but he— Very well. Someday, Lorenz would learn to stop letting his friend play him like a viola, but today was apparently not that day.

Marianne was mid-training when they arrived. She—oh, she was—wearing the, the uniform. Of course she was, she’d vouchsafed to him that the, the apparent decorations on the uniform had a magical as well as decorative function. But there certainly _is_ a—an aesthetic, aesthetic drive underlying the, the design of the uniform. 

Marianne was lovely. The dancer uniform consisted primarily of two layered skirts, and a gathered bodice that left one shoulder bared. Unlike her previous uniform, which had sewn from sturdy material, the dancer uniform—draped, and, and laid closely along the, ah, the planes and curves of the body concealed within. It was designed to, to flow, Lorenz supposed faintly, and accentuate each gesture. The skirts were cut for—for movement, Lorenz had to assume. They—Marianne, ah, extended one leg gracefully, and her skirts fell back, exposing a creamy white thigh—Lorenz shut his eyes. Leonie had been correct. He might die here. 

Leonie leaned close, whispered, “You’ll miss the best part.” 

“Leonie, I will strangle you,” Lorenz promised fervently, eyes closed. Oh, oh, Goddess keep and preserve him, he was still picturing—

“Aw, that’s not nice,” Leonie chided. Lorenz opened his eyes long enough to glare at her, caught a glimpse of—of movement, rapidly moving hips and, and—he shut his eyes again. Leonie sighed. “Fine, don’t look at her. But help me make sure these cookies look nice.” She pressed the basket of cookies into his hands. Lorenz opened his eyes cautiously, taking care to look only at—the baked goods they’d brought. Oh, Leonie was right, they were in a dire state, all jumbled together artlessly. He set to the task of arranging them into a more pleasing configuration while contentiously not paying any mind to any—impression of movement or, or bared skin happening in his periphery.

“Hey, I know you don’t know how all this is going to end up, or how you want it to, but did you ever think that if you married a girl with long hair, you could help her braid it and stuff?” Leonie asked. Lorenz—almost crushed the cookie he was holding.

“Strangulation is too good for you,” he said. Leonie was looking at him expectantly. Goddess, he was red. “...I don’t know how.” Himself and his someday-wife, identity deeply unspecified but coincidentally with flowing blue hair, sitting behind her, both of them in their bedclothes. Running a soft brush through her hair, untangling it little by little. Talking about their day, planning their tomorrows. Gently weaving it into a plait, tying it with a ribbon. Kissing the back of her neck. Oh.

“Oh, right,” Leonie said. “You could learn. It’s not hard.”

Lorenz opened his mouth to chide her, but Leonie slapped his shoulder and flapped her hand at the refreshments. What? Oh, oh right. He busied himself with arraying them attractively. Marianne’s lesson was reaching a break.

“Well done,” the dance instructor said. “Take a break. Your friends have brought refreshment.”

Marianne turned, and saw them, and— _oh,_ she was so lovely. The exertion had brought a healthy glow to her skin, and she was lightly dewed with sweat, and her, her hair was escaping its braid. Lorenz was flushed and breathless, and, and he was—she was like the sun, and he was a flower, helpless to do anything but follow her with his gaze.

Oh, and Leonie was there, still. This was fortunate, as she was the one to break the thick, breathless silence that had fallen.

“You’re making so much progress. We brought snacks.” _Leonie._ Lorenz didn’t know whether to laugh or despair. She continued, “They’re—what are they, Lorenz?”

“A selection of thumbprint cookies with peach preserves made from Goneril peaches and garnished with slivered almonds harvested in Gloucester,” Lorenz said. “Accompanied by a fine white tea with a complex flavor featuring warm floral notes, a soft mouthfeel, and a clean, uplifting finish. It is a brew worthy of a refined and delicate palate.” Another stifling silence fell. Leonie intervened once again.

“Yummy.” That was just. Utterly Leonie. But, oh, Marianne smiled, and she was so—her smiles were still a rarity, and Lorenz wanted to, to hoard them in his heart. Leonie slapped the floor next to her. “Sit down, let’s eat.” Marianne did so. Lorenz poured the tea and ensured that she selected only the finest of the cookies. Watching her expression of polite interest in their offerings melt into surprise and genuine enjoyment made Lorenz feel like a, a bright, shining thing, like he’d done something meaningful. And Leonie was there, coaxing Marianne into speech, offering verbal openings up to Lorenz, and then—she was gone, somehow, disappeared on some errand. Lorenz felt a shadow of disquiet, but then Marianne _asked a question_ about the preparation of the _tea_ , and it was so, so delightful, and Lorenz—smiled, and she smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you know, when you get good enough at gardening, you can "spread pegasus blessings" in the greenhouse. I always giggled at that.  
> \--  
> RECS  
> 1\. [Hidden Talents by dango96.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24632803) _Leonie and Felix are mercenaries, but being a mercenary doesn't always pay the bills. So they dip into their pool of other talents, and wind up working at a brothel... Their first customer is one very embarrassed Lorenz Hellman Gloucester._ I enjoyed this one exactly as much as you'd assume (ﾉ^∇^)ﾉﾟ  
> 2\. [Azure Kiss by AbhorrentSelkie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25613197/chapters/62170096). It's a FE3H & Ouran High School Host Club crossover! Ingrid is shanghaied into the Host Club following a mishap that leaves her indebted to a bunch of rich kids. It's only 3 chapters so far (it's a WIP) but I LOVE.


	6. Cause of Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How is she?” Hilda asked sympathetically.

Lorenz, being an observer of human nature in general and Claude in particular, was aware that the house leader of the Golden Deer was more than passingly interested in Professor Eisner. (One could, in fact, and with very little doubt, assert that he was _infatuated_ with her. Claude would, if confronted, claim that he merely found her interesting verging on intriguing, but _honestly._ )

Lorenz was also aware that Claude had been offering (verging on begging) to be added to the roster for the Blue Lions’ monthly missions. The three houses’ missions rarely occurred simultaneously, so his hypothetical inclusion on Kingdom missions wouldn’t have necessarily required him to abandon his nominal house—but the first time Lorenz had heard Claude advocating for himself, he’d felt oddly—well, certainly odd. As if Alliance missions were insufficient for him. As if the Leicester Alliance were not the soul and beating heart of his world. As if Claude von Riegan could conceive of, of _leaving_ it, abandoning it, to pursue other ends.

Professor Eisner had resisted Claude’s pleas to attend the Blue Lions’ missions until Flayn disappeared. The urgency of of locating the girl had driven her to accept Claude’s offer. Claude had been recounting the mission to the other Deer when she was safely returned. He had described the frightful figure known as the Death Knight, of course, and some mysterious mages—and Lorenz only recalled Claude’s description of said mages for how Lysithea had interrupted their leader, demanded he repeat himself. As Claude repeated the description (dark clothing, cowled, faces concealed by beaked masks), Lysithea had become—not agitated, but so tense as to be immobile. Thereafter, she had joined Claude in demanding to accompany Professor Eisner’s house on their missions. 

Thus it was Claude (unsmiling for once) and Lysithea (white-lipped, face terribly still) who, at the very end of Ethereal Moon, bore the news of Jeralt’s death.

There was—a sound, a cry, barely human. Lorenz’s head whipped around just in time to see Leonie disappear through the door, running—somewhere, away, to, to hide, or confirm—?

Lorenz was on his feet after her when Raphael caught his arm. 

“Wait,” the taller boy said, and how could he _wait,_ he had to go—

“Don’t chase her,” Marianne said, unexpectedly. “ _Don’t._ She’s just had a shock, she—don’t make her feel trapped. You shouldn’t chase someone after they’ve lost someone.” She seemed—sure, as if she knew what she was speaking about, and Lorenz didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what to say, so he—listened. He didn’t run after her. He stayed, and he and the other Deer wrung the details out of Claude and Lysithea, demanded answers they had no way to provide, and he—stayed there.

He didn’t see Leonie for the rest of the day. When he asked, he learned she’d—been to the Chapel, and the Knight’s Hall, and haunted the Archbishop’s office, and the professors’ quarters, and then, it seemed, no one had seen her.

No one saw her the next day. Not any of the other Golden Deer, not Professor Hanneman, the gatekeeper, the fishing pond overseer, the training yard master, the dining hall staff—

Lorenz found himself facing her door. There was no light from within, nor sound, but—he knocked.

“Leonie?” he called. “Are you okay?”

“No.” Lorenz winced. Of, of course. She sounded horrible, her hero had just died, of course she—

“Apologies, that was…” He took a deep breath, tried again. “Will you open the door?” Silence. “Please?”

Leonie opened the door. She looked—oh, oh dear. She looked—her eyes were red and swollen. Of course. She was looking at the floor. Lorenz shifted from foot to foot.

“What.” It was a statement rather than a question, and the statement was _I don’t want to talk to you._ Lorenz didn’t know what to do.

“You missed lunch,” he said. Oh, Leonie. He was still in shock, a little, and he hadn’t shed any tears but seeing her like this—oh. He hefted the bowl he was carrying. “I brought you some fish.” Pickled seafood and vegetables. It was—aromatic. It certainly wasn’t his favorite, but she always ate it up, and, and aroma was known to stimulate appetite, so he thought, maybe—

“Great,” Leonie said flatly. She took the bowl from him and continued to stand in the doorway, staring at it without interest.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“What if I said no,” Leonie said. A ghost of an expression flickered across her face, and she nearly met his eye before her gaze fell back down. “Didn’t think of that, did you?”

“I suppose I didn’t,” Lorenz admitted. “Please may I come in?” Leonie sighed. 

“Fine.” He followed her into her room. She sat on the edge of the bed. After an uncomfortable moment, he sat at her desk. 

She took a bite. Lorenz didn’t know what to say. Leonie took another bite. Lorenz still didn’t know what to say. Eventually, she finished the dish, stared into the empty bowl. He never figured out what to say.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” he asked. She was always more cheerful after getting out in the fresh air—

“Thanks for the food,” she said, a flat refusal. Oh, okay. He hesitated, but—he didn’t know what to do. She clearly wanted to be left alone, but he wasn’t sure—she glared at him. (She glared past his shoulder.) Lorenz left.

Lorenz spent what felt like a lot of time standing outside Leonie’s closed door. He kept bringing food because that, well, it seemed like it had worked, and she needed to eat, and, and—it made him feel like he was doing _something._ He kept trying to coax her out too, but he did not succeed. He didn’t know what to do.

She missed class. Leonie Pinelli had worked monstrously hard to gather the funds to attend the Officers’ Academy and had indebted herself to her village for the rest. She never missed class, she even showed up for all the seminars Professor Hanneman arranged, she rarely slept in—

Lorenz stared at her closed door and wanted to cry. Jeralt’s death was tragic, obviously, and frightening, and all manner of things, but this—Lorenz didn’t know what to do. He knocked. 

“Leonie? Are you in there?” Silence. “Leonie?”

“Yup.” 

“You missed class,” Lorenz offered.

“Yup.”

“Are you—” No, she was not okay, and she wouldn’t be for some time. He took a deep breath. “That is. I brought food.” Silence. “… Leonie?”

“Still here.”

“Will you open the door?” _Please._

“Not now, Lorenz.” Four syllables this time, that was, that was something. Well, it wasn’t, but. Okay. (She sounded so _tired,_ she always had energy, up at dawn, running here and there, he didn’t—) Lorenz knelt, put the bowl (turnip soup, it was bitter but she thought of it as comfort food) on the floor with shaking hands. For a moment he just—wanted to stay there, on the floor, waiting—

He stood up. “Okay.” Silence. “There is food by the door. I’ll… I hope to see you soon.” He left.

“How is she?” Hilda asked sympathetically. Lorenz—sighed, barely had the energy to refill his lungs.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I haven’t seen her since the beginning of the week.”

“ _Lorenz,_ ” Hilda gasped. Lorenz braced himself for her censure. He, he knew it, he should have insisted on seeing her. If he’d said the right thing or done something different, she would have, have at least opened the door for him and, and—Hilda put one hand on his shoulder. Then she put her other hand on his other arm. Then she—hugged him. Oh. Lorenz made an animal noise, curled against her. He was so tired, and he was sad, and he—

“I’m scared,” he admitted very, very softly. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Neither do I, but let’s not blunder around alone,” Hilda said. Oh, Hilda. She really was very—Lorenz may have cried, a little. She kept her arms around him, and she was impossibly soft, all of her hard edges and stubborn bones hidden away, so unlike his friend, and she held him close and, and patted his head and ran a hand through his hair and—oh, he was being so _foolish_ —

“She’s alone,” he managed to get out, possibly coherently. Here he was crying on Hilda’s shoulder when Leonie was alone and had been for days, and—

“She has us.”

“She _doesn’t_ though,” Lorenz insisted. He tried to pull away—to do what, he knew not—but Hilda kept him in place without any apparent effort (what were they feeding the Gonerils, good gracious) and sighed. 

“She has you,” Hilda said, and Lorenz wanted to laugh sickly because if only that were true, “And you can’t help _her_ when you’re wearing yourself to the bone. When was the last time you slept?”

“Last night,” Lorenz said. For about four hours, non-consecutively.

“Right. We’re finding Claude, and then you’re taking a nap,” Hilda said firmly. It was probably Leonie’s influence (oh, Leonie), or maybe Lorenz’s own weakness, but he found himself utterly swept along in the face of, of a determined woman with a plan, even one as ill-formed as asking _Claude_ for help. 

Lorenz didn’t sleep so much as hibernate. After their little conference with Claude (Hilda did all the talking), he fell into slumber so deep that neither dreams nor the passage of time could reach him. He woke an unknowable amount of time later, feeling not especially rested. He took himself to the dining hall because—because. The body still needed to be fed, he supposed, and he could get more food for Leonie while he was there. 

“We all talked to her,” Claude said apropos of nothing. “Hanneman too.”

“Thank you,” Lorenz said inadequately.

Claude ruffled his hair (obnoxious, what was he, a child?) and said in an uncharacteristically sober voice, “She’s our friend, too.” He left before Lorenz could articulate an appropriate response.

Leonie started coming to class again. She looked—awful, like a ghost of herself. She _drifted_ from place to place, moving slowly and quietly as, as a feather on the wind. Leonie didn’t drift, she, she charged or bounded or, or bulled her way through life. She kept her eyes on her lecture notes, barely followed conversations. She left food on her plate.

Another free day came, and Leonie wouldn’t answer the door. She didn’t even respond to knocking. Lorenz, having neither dignity nor self-respect at this point, ascertained that she was even in the room at all by means of prostrating himself on the floor of the corridor so as to better listen at the crack under the door. Snoring. Okay, good. Lorenz forced himself to go to the dining hall to ingest sustenance. Okay.

He had it in his mind to go find—Hilda, or Raphael, or even Claude, or literally anyone because he was, as Leonie would probably put it, _losing his entire fucking mind_ at this juncture. However, as he was staring at an unappetizing plate of something or other, he saw—Felix. (Leonie, laughing, warm, full of mischief,‘Your cousin really knows how to move it on the dance floor.’) Goddess, but he was grasping at straws. Oh, oh—what the, the heck. Hell. Fine. Fine, Lorenz was going to do this. Fine.

Appallingly, it worked. He was in the middle of making his request when he remembered that many of the Blue Lions were furious at Leonie following a deeply ill-advised conversation she’d had with their beloved professor, but—Felix didn’t bring it up. He’d stared at Lorenz like he was a disgusting, contemptible bit of vermin (normal, for Felix) as Lorenz stammeringly failed to articulate his thoughts, nodded once, and turned away.

Not long after, Leonie showed up at Lorenz’s door holding—oh, it was the soup he’d left her that morning. She sat on his bed and ate it all, then set the bowl down. Lorenz hovered, the very spirit of awkward uncertainty, until she patted the bed next to her. She still wasn’t looking at him. Lorenz sat carefully. She—leaned, her whole body swaying until their shoulders touched. She set her head on his shoulder. Lorenz barely breathed. After a long, long moment, she huffed tiredly and grabbed his hand, settled his arm around her waist. Well, okay. When she curled towards him, he wrapped his arms around her. She breathed, slow and deep, and Lorenz—did his best.

(Later, she requested the use of his bruise balm, only the finest, and Lorenz learned what action, precisely, Felix had taken to reach her. “I told you to talk to her, not kill her,” Lorenz hissed when he passed his erstwhile cousin in the corridor. “You did know who you were asking,” Felix said, “Besides, I did both.” “I cannot believe I thought this would help,” Lorenz sighed, knowing full well that _apparently_ it had. He was the only sane man in a school of lunatics.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a way this chapter was harder to write than Leonie's because she spends her chapter being, uh, numbed out. Meanwhile, Lorenz always has 500 emotions so. This was the chapter that made me realize I'd strayed _really far away_ from the original spirit of the kinkmeme prompt and kicked off this 2-part series. (It was written before the Marianne's dance practice chapter.)  
> -  
> RECS  
> 1\. [Kneel For Your King](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26537458/chapters/64686211) by oneletterdiff. _It started when Ingrid noticed Ashe gazing wistfully at the king... Ashe and Ingrid are in a relationship and agree that Dimitri is really hot. Ingrid proposes they play a little game of pretend in bed._  
>  2\. [red velvet under pressure](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26510953) by featherx. _Linhardt talks too much, and Yuri has finally devised a solution to shut him up (for now)._ (It's sex, obviously, that's the solution.)  
> 3\. [maybe, maybe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26546755) (yes I'm reccing my own fic because I have no shame). Leonie/Lorenz, modern AU, feat. gender stuff  
> \--  
> Next chapter: To War


	7. To War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was much to do, and not enough time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter: spoilers for the end of academy phase

For their Guardian Moon mission, Professor Hanneman took them to a desert where they ventured deep into some strange stone structures. They were—they didn’t seem like temples, but they also didn’t seem like any buildings Lorenz had seen before. Most of them were underground, and it was Ignatz who remarked that, given the lack of windows, they likely had been designed to be subterranean rather than buried by the dunes. They had to evade traps and hostile arachnids to retrieve several tomes on crests and arcana. They returned, and Professor Hanneman disappeared into his study, and Claude and Lysithea scarcely took the time to sleep before joining the Blue Lions on _their_ monthly mission.

The returned—shaken. Extremely so. The Blue Lions collectively seemed to be in a fragile state, clustering around their beloved professor, moving together like a pack of hounds. Professor Eisner herself was— _transformed._ Her once dark hair shone an eerie green, a brighter hue than even Archbishop Rhea’s. Her eyes, too, seemed to glow with the same vivid light.

Lorenz did not know what to make of it. He cornered Claude, demanded answers. Claude, worryingly, capitulated. He liked his secrets (infuriating person), but apparently some experiences were too unwieldy to keep entirely to one’s self. 

They had ventured into an underground forest, confronted the traitors, whereupon the one known as Solon apparently turned on the one called Kronya, ripped her heart from her breast, and used it as—it must have been a spell component. Lorenz had learned a little of dark magic, but this was something else again. At the Kingdom School of Sorcery their instructors had made passing reference to—other magics, traditions of blood and bone, but follow-up questions yielded warnings and continued inquiry could get a student—disappeared. Lorenz had little new information to offer Claude on the spell he’d witnessed. It could have been a gruesome way to call on the etheric pattern underlying the Warp spell, or—well, Claude was no mage.He had no need to understand the theoretical underpinnings of the spell he’d witnessed.

Whatever Solon had done, it had banished Professor Eisner. Solon’s taunts had implied she’d been forced into, oh, an in-between space, as if the world they inhabited were a woven cloth and Professor Eisner had been slipped between the warp and weft, neither here nor there but adjacent to everything. Lorenz knew just enough to understand he knew almost nothing, that such topics were the work of lifetimes, but—if Lorenz understood what Claude thought he _remembered_ of what _Solon_ had said, then—Professor Eisner should never have been able to return under her own power. And yet.

“I don’t know what I would have done—Rhea didn’t want Teach on that mission,” Claude was saying. His arms were tightly crossed over his chest as he leaned back in his chair, shoulders hunched. His green eyes were shadowed, staring into imagined horrors. They were in one of the courtyards, the lush green vegetation and golden light of sunset offering a backdrop so peaceful as to be jarring. “She thought something might happen, and she was right.”

“You had no way to know that,” Lorenz tried. Claude laughed sickly. “Well,” Lorenz tried again, “If it had been anyone else, they wouldn’t have been able to come back. So if it had to be someone, better that it be her?”

Claude—he didn’t look happier at the thought, exactly, but he lost some of the horror in his posture, uncrossed his arms in favor of leaning his elbows on the table. Lorenz looked at the other boy’s hand—it was close enough to, to cover with his own, to offer comfort—but couldn’t bring himself to move. Claude—smiled crookedly, looked much more like himself for an instant (infuriating) than this shaken creature, and turned his hand over, palm up on the table. 

“Huh, you’re worrying about me. Or I hit my head and none of this is happening. Are you even really Lorenz? Have you secretly been replaced too?” Lorenz felt—he didn’t know, but the soft air of the courtyard suddenly seemed—charged, waiting. Claude’s hand was still open, fingers a relaxed curl, just deliberate enough to—confuse him, but not so blatant as to, to mean anything if asked.

“Claude, only you would think to joke about that in a time like this,” Lorenz accused, and broke the spell. Claude laughed, and Lorenz—couldn’t even bring himself to be upset about whatever had happened, or not happened, or almost happened. Dark and mysterious forces walked among them, Professor Eisner had done the impossible and been transformed, Leonie was a ghost of herself, and Lorenz—if he could offer a moment of levity to his, his rival then—so be it.

The month continued apace. Leonie was still—she was still deep in grief, but she was eating and training and showing up for class, so Lorenz tried not to—not to push her. She was— still pushing herself, of course, but Lorenz didn’t want to be an imposition. nevertheless, he found himself dropping by her room for no reason at all, just to lay eyes on her. Once, he couldn’t find her, so he visited the most likely locations, and found her—in the library, sharing one of the couches on the upper floor with Raphael of all people. He was reading a letter, and she was—curled up against his side, tucked under one arm, eyes shut. Raphael noticed him, waved and smiled. She opened her eyes. Lorenz must have—his face must have been a picture because she smiled (small and crooked, but _oh_ ) and waved him over. He sat next to her. She sat up just enough to comb a hand through his hair, then slumped back. Her hand dropped into the space between them, found a hold on his sleeve.

“Raph’s sister says thanks for the skin cream,” she said without energy. Oh, yes, Raphael had been in need for a midwinter gift for his sister, Lorenz had all but forgotten—“She wants to know what the smell is. Some kind of flower?” As soon as Lorenz started to answer, her eyes drifted shut. Lorenz directed his answer to Raphael instead, stayed where he was. If Leonie was content to sleep here, Lorenz wasn’t going to wake her.

At length, Guardian Moon gave way to Pegasus Moon. Lorenz’s hopes that the new month would bring improved circumstances were sadly misplaced. Professor Hanneman guided the Golden Deer into Alliance Territory, practically to Ordelia, in order to collect samples of _Amanita audacia_. Each student was issued two sets of gloves and collecting pouches, and they were treated to not one but two lectures on the importance of safe handling of the fungus in question.

“…gloves at all times. Above all else, it is imperative that if any part of the fungus comes into contact with your eyes, nose, mouth, or—Goddess forbid—any cuts, scratches, or open wounds, you summon me _immediately._ Is that understood? You will all be issued whistles to that end, and no one is to explore the forest alone. Yes, Hilda, question?” 

“Professor, if these mushrooms are so dangerous, why are you asking us students to collect them at all?” Hilda asked, twirling her hair around one finger girlishly, which did not totally distract from the sharpness of her gaze. “Shouldn’t you get someone older and stuff?” Professor Hanneman sighed, and Lorenz was briefly and acutely aware of all the wrinkles and worry lines on his face. 

“Would that I could, Miss Goneril,” he said seriously. “Unfortunately, circumstances demand that our older, more skilled assets be deployed elsewhere, and the nature of—this research requires that we continue with all due speed.” Lorenz did not know what the slight hesitation before _this research_ meant, nor did he know what to make of the way Professor Hanneman’s eyes scanned the desks as he spoke.

“Professor Hanneman, if I may, what precisely—” Lorenz began.

“Well, that’s that then,” Claude said cheerfully.

“I was _speaking,_ Claude,” Lorenz said. It seemed out of character for the other boy to weigh into any conversation on the side of _not_ questioning authority, but Claude (a) was perennially irritating and (b) delighted in being difficult to read. “Professor, what precisely is the purpose of these fungi?”

“Have you heard of ‘fluted cauldron’ or ‘blue dapperling?’” their professor asked. Lorenz hadn’t. 

“Fluted cauldron is used in some nasty poisons,” Claude said with no small interest. Of course he did.

“Dapperling has some applications in that area as well,” Professor Hanneman said. “But that is not is primary use. It is, in fact, a key component in elixirs.” He adjusted his glasses. “I think this should go without saying, Mister von Riegan, but it is imperative that you do not attempt to hold onto any of the mushrooms we collect on our mission. To do so would endanger yourself and the people around you.”

“I wouldn’t,” Claude said mildly. Something about the expression on his face made Lorenz believe him. What was the world coming to.

“Excellent, it gladdens me to hear that.” Professor Hanneman said. “To return to your question, Lorenz, suffice to say that the fungus we will be collecting is related to fluted cauldron, blue dapperling, and more than half a dozen other fungi with uses in several branches of magic. It has—properties that may make it extremely useful in my research.”

“So we’re going out into the woods at night to collect deadly mushrooms for your research?” Hilda asked, still twirling her hair around one finger.

“I’m afraid so, Miss Goneril, but please rest assured that this research will benefit more than just myself.”

Despite the extended discussion of the danger posed by the mushrooms, they were only notified about the _outsized, ferocious direwolves_ when they arrived in the forest. Seemingly, the perils of the fungi had occupied Professor Hanneman’s mind so completely he’d neglected to mention it. 

They avoided being mauled and returned to the monastery with a goodly amount of carefully-stored fungi. Professor Hanneman promptly disappeared into his office with their fungal wealth, and Claude and Lysithea promptly (or so it seemed to Lorenz) mobilized themselves for the Blue Lions’ mission. 

If they’d returned shaken last month, this month—well, the outcome certainly upset _everyone’s_ expectations. Lorenz didn’t even have to harry Claude into disclosing what had happened—Claude sought _him_ out. In a lush courtyard, the evening air soft and sweet, Claude told him—well.

To start off, the monastery was built overtop the Holy Tomb, wherein the remains of the Goddess Sothis herself were interred. The Kingdom Students (and the Archbishop, Claude and Lysithea) had descended into the hidden tomb to begin the (admittedly, to Claude’s and thus Lorenz’s vague understanding, _honestly_ sometimes his whimsical approach was more irritating than charming) sacred ritual when they were interrupted by the Flame Emperor. After a pitched battle, the Emperor’s mask was knocked aside to reveal _Edelgard_ , whereupon—

“I already knew there was something off about him, but I, he—Lorenz, you should have been there. He was _deranged_ , laughing and, and—not just berserk, but smiling, and his eyes—” Claude broke off, shuddered. Lorenz felt cold all over.

“And you’re sure it was Edelgard?” Lorenz asked. Claude nodded, as serious as Lorenz had ever known him. _Oh._

“I saw her,” he said. “And heard her.”

“She could be—a shapeshifter, like Tomas,” Lorenz tried. He was—he was sick with it, thinking of the Empire mustering for war.

“Not sure how that would be better,” Claude said, and he was right but—

“If she marches—Gloucester—the border—” Just as Goneril ruled the border with Almyra, Gloucester was entrusted with the Imperial border. “I must write to my father.” His father—their people— The _Imperial Army_ was marching— Lorenz stood.

“Lorenz, wait—” Claude said, and grabbed him by both arms, the bastard. His hands spanned Lorenz’s wrists effortlessly. “Lorenz.”

“I must—I should go, in person, at once—” Lorenz tried to break away, but Claude kept his hold on Lorenz, kept him from, from going—

“Lorenz, you _can’t_ —”

“Unhand me this instant, or I’ll—” His fingertips glowed, his need to _go_ summoning his magic, and (he wouldn’t have done it, wouldn’t have burned him) Claude tugged, pulled him _close_ so Lorenz’s hands were at his chest, practically at Claude’s throat, and the spell was still building, and Lorenz could feel it when Claude breathed, his hands rising and falling with the other man’s chest, and he spoke.

“Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, you cannot go.” Claude’s voice was quiet and serious, and his eyes were level and so green, and Lorenz—forced himself to take a breath, forced the magic to disperse. It burned in his own veins. “Write your letter. Warn your father. But we need you here.”

“Claude, please,” Lorenz said, quiet now too. But oh, his family, and their lands, and the outlying villages, the _border_ —

“We need every hand, Lorenz. You especially. You’re a _lord_ , a noble, and if you leave, it would—imagine how it would look. Imagine what it would do for, for morale, _please_ —”

“Claude,” Lorenz made himself say. “I understand. I—” He took a shaky breath, let it out. Felt Claude do the same. “I must stay. Gloucester—my father must see to our territory. I must stay here.”

“Health and harmony,” Claude breathed and loosened his grip. “You—thank you, Lorenz.”

“Think nothing of it, Claude. It is the duty of a noble to put the needs of the many above the, the desires of the heart. We must lead by example.” Lorenz’s voice may have sounded—weak, even thin, but he did mean it, and Claude—smiled, crooked and sad and ~~fond?~~ —and patted Lorenz on the shoulder. He turned and was walking away when the monastery bells started to ring.

The bells were a summons, a call for all persons to assemble. The Archbishop herself shared the news, and as shock traveled through the crowd, Seteth and Alois stepped forward and began outlining preparations to be made.

Marianne left. Hilda too.

There were still two weeks to prepare, and that was a quarter of the Golden Deer—gone.

Officially, Hilda and Marianne had been dispatched on a—a mission of mercy, as it were, shepherding the children of the monastery to safety ahead of the, arrival of the Imperial Army (the _Imperial Army_ ), but unofficially—

There was so much to do. There was much to do, and not enough time, and they were down two sets of hands.

There was so much to do, and Lorenz knew that the question of whether Marianne and Hilda had abandoned their duty was not—not _un_ important, but irrelevant to the urgent work of the moment, yet it chafed him. Marianne had always—he’d thought her to be, be—it was hard to even think of, as if to contemplate what he had believed to be the contents of her character would, in this context, be a repudiation of those same admirable traits. He had thought she was—caring. He had—he had _known_ that she cared deeply, not only for her classmates and the people of the monastery, but even its animals as well. He—Lorenz did still believe she cared about them. Surely she must, if she and Hilda were leading the children of the monastery away? She must. She _must._ He could ascribe no other motivation to the girl he—to his classmate.

Yet there was something—something about the situation seemed askew. If the goal was to evacuate the children to safety as quickly as possible, why send Marianne and Hilda? To his knowledge neither of them had any particular love of children nor experience caring for them. Raphael both adored children and would make a formidable guardian. Or—Mercedes was widely known for her patience (except where Lorenz himself was concerned), or Ingrid was steadfast, or—well. Hilda and Marianne were not the most obvious candidates.

And there was this: some deep, unworthy part of Lorenz felt abandoned. Although rationally he understood that the decision to send Marianne and Hilda away (the decision for them to _leave_ ) had nothing to do with him. It must be done suddenly and with no notice so as to minimize the chance that news of their flight might be passed along to Imperial agents to be held hostage or worse. It had to be done. They _had_ to leave. And—Lorenz had stayed, and Claude had stayed (had asked him to stay). Everyone loyal had stayed, and—Marianne and Hilda had _left._ Whatever befell the souls at the monastery would not befall them, and that was—good, obviously, only a monster would wish ill on his own friends. Yet he could not quell the hateful, crawling part of him that whispered at night, hissed that he may die while his classmates lived because they had put their self love above duty. In the bright, clear daylight he knew that wasn’t, couldn’t be, the case, knew that even had circumstances not _demanded_ it, he would have _chosen_ to stay. He knew his classmates were—dutiful, and honorable, even in spite of Hilda’s jokes about her own character, in spite of Marianne’s tendency to flinch at conflict. But at night—Lorenz did not know anyone who was at their best late at night. 

Leonie had been crying again. It was hard to know these days if it meant anything in particular or was just—Leonie, now. (What was Leonie: she worked as she cried. She tested bowstrings and cut bandages and her shoulders heaved and she kept moving.) She had nothing to say on the subject of Marianne and Hilda, hardly showed interest in anything at all.

Lysithea was white-lipped and livid, saying nothing if the subject arose, as if that could hide how the air itself crackled with arcane energy when Hilda or Marianne’s names came up. (Did she sleep? Could she? She was up at all hours, and the dark circles under her eyes were as frightful as Marianne’s…) Claude was—smiling, false, wished Hilda and Marianne success and safety on their mission, was grateful that the children had been evacuated (this, Lorenz did believe), spoke rotely on the subject and then hurried along. He was always in motion, always “checking in,” flitting from the Golden Deer to the Blue Lions and points in between. Lorenz was put in mind of a boy treading water in a churning sea. Ignatz was tense as a bowstring and shook when he thought no one was watching. 

Raphael was—Lorenz named him, specifically, in his prayers to the Goddess. It was hard to remember to be grateful for anything in those tense days, but Raphael was workstrong and steady and he only complained about the rationing a little, and he did it without heat, and it was so _Raphael_ that Lorenz smiled. And Ignatz smiled, and Leonie—well, she didn’t smile, exactly, but her expression was less shadowed, and she added food from her own plate to Raphael’s. (Lorenz frowned at that, and she gave him a look that likely meant _I wasn’t going to finish anyway_ and that was its own problem, thank you, but Raphael was so happy and she looked tiredly fond instead of hollow, and—Lorenz couldn’t bring himself to object further.)

There was so much to do.

Somehow, between—scouting the area and repairing the fortifications and inventorying the entire monastery and _endless_ letters to and from Gloucester—the monastery staff called all the students to assemble, formal uniforms required.

When the students arrived, they found Lady Rhea, Seteth, and the professors, most of their other instructors assembled already. They were dressed formally too, and their expressions were serious but not somber.

Seteth stepped forward. He looked at the assembled students, took a deep breath, and spoke.

“I’m sure many of you have already guessed, but we are graduating you today. It goes without saying that this is very different from other graduations.” His voice was deep and calm, at once personal and carrying. An orator’s voice. “In ordinary times, you would have months ahead of you to study, procrastinate, and learn new tricks. There would be a flurry of certification exams, some ill-advised ‘secret’ parties,” he gave them all a pointed look. There were a few laughs. “And finally, graduation, standing in this very hall. It would be crowded with familiar faces. The students’ families and loved ones pour into the monastery from all corners of the continent. I don’t mind admitting that meeting the people who raised you can be quite enlightening.” This got a few chuckles, and here and there some tears. Lorenz—could imagine it, himself standing tall and proud alongside his classmates. If circumstances permitted it, his mother and father would both have attended, each of them the very picture of the ideal of nobility. He blinked hard, breathed evenly, kept his head high.

Seteth continued, “Ordinarily, alums flock to the monastery for graduation. Before each graduation, we invite all the graduates in attendance to stand and be acknowledged.

“These are not ordinary times. None of you chose this, but circumstances have chosen you. In the coming days, the world will ask you to do extraordinary things. I, and all your instructors, know you are up to the challenge. 

“We are forgoing all final examinations for your year because, just by standing here, shoulder to shoulder, you have already exceeded every expectation your teachers would dare to ask of you. You, each and every one of you, have proven yourselves to be extraordinary. Stand strong, look out for each other, and double-check your weapons and gear. Class of 1181, extraordinary children, congratulations on the occasion of your graduation. Our work has just begun. The Goddess and all Saints keep you and bless you.” 

There was applause from the edges of the room. While Seteth had been speaking, in spite of the demands of the work, various servants, soldiers, and knights had slipped into the room. They clapped hard, stamped their feet, made far more noise than their small numbers should have accounted for. The students—squared their shoulders, lifted their heads, straightened their backs. Rhea blessed their class, implored the Goddess to guide their steps, keep them safe, and welcome them when the time came. Then the archbishop gazed at them all for a long moment before she smiled.

“Despite these extraordinary times, we are reminded not to forget all our traditions,” she said warmly. The archbishop clapped her hands together and said, “Everyone! Let us eat.” Servants and off-duty soldiers streamed into the room carrying tables and platters of food. There were cheers from students and staff alike.

The food was hot and plentiful. Near one end of the room, a group of musicians took up their instruments. They were—oh, they were servants of the monastery. Lorenz didn’t what to expect, but they began to play a song with a fast, driving beat. Although Lorenz didn’t recognize the song exactly, there was something about it that was enticingly familiar. He looked around and saw his fellow students’ heads cocked. Professor Manuela walked to the front of the room. She was wearing an embroidered vest, a flowing skirt, and low-heeled shoes.

“Alright, my lovelies,” she called over the music. Her history as a performer was apparent in not only her stance but also in how her voice carried across the hall and seemed to fit into the building music. “If you’ve never done a contra dance, then it’s high time you learned. Find yourself a partner now, anyone will do. And I hope you’re wearing comfortable shoes.” Lorenz listened as she—oh, there was a kind of procedure for the dancing portion of the evening, rather different from the formal dances Lorenz had attended. Apparently they were to learn some folk dances tonight.

Professor Manuela was starting to explain some of the basic movements they would be using when Leonie appeared before Lorenz. He couldn’t help but notice that she was—oh. She was smiling, a little. It was a crooked thing, but—it eased his heart to see it. She took his unresisting hand, led him onto the dance floor. 

Manuela walked them through the steps and outlined the pattern of the first dance. Lorenz listened carefully. They assembled into two lines facing into the middle, and the violins began playing in earnest, and—they were off. Spinning, trading places, breaking apart, coming together again. Lorenz looked to his partner, and—she was still smiling. Oh, Leonie. She was looking at him, and she was warm and alive. He was aware of both how much vitality she still seemed to have and of how small she was. It had been a dreadful few months, but for now—for now. 

The dances flowed into each other, varied things built on the same skill set. Quite a few required pairs of dancers to combine to form larger groups of four or even six. An early song, with a jumping, lively pace, made Leonie throw her head back and laugh. She towed Lorenz by the hand until they located Raphael and Ignatz. This particular piece, she vouchsafed, was called ‘Rabbit and Fleas,’ and it seemed to be a particular favorite of not only Leonie but also Ignatz. They couldn’t stop smiling at each other, bright-eyed and almost conspiratorial. Lorenz found it hopelessly charming.

Charming but demanding. They were all breathing heavily when the song ended.

“In my village, everyone wears skirts for these,” Leonie said with an unusual note of wistfulness. Raphael nodded, smiling. Lorenz and Ignatz shared a look.

“My grandpa and little sis and I have matching ones,” Raphael said. “Really pretty too, with lots of colors.” He plucked absently at his jacket. “They’re cooler too.” Lorenz… couldn’t imagine it. To guess from Ignatz’s expression, he felt the same way. But Leonie was nodding, as if there was nothing unusual about a grandfather, grandson, and granddaughter wearing matching skirts to a public event.

“Sounds pretty,” Leonie said. Raphael nodded and beamed. 

“It is!”

The night passed in a whirl. The frenetic pace of the truly fast songs seemed to suit Leonie quite naturally, provoking that sharp-toothed smile that had been so rare of late. It seemed that, unlike the dances Lorenz was accustomed to, there was nothing especially outre about keeping the same partner for most or even all of the night. Lorenz guessed that this was because of how frequently pairs traded partners, only to be reunited again. Lorenz was aware that some pairs, Ignatz and Raphael included, occasionally stepped away from the dance floor, but Leonie seemed determined to dance to each song, and who was he to decline? 

At last, Professor Manuela announced the last song, and the floor filled up again. They spun and swayed and separated and found each other again.

And then it was over. Lorenz bowed.

“Thank you,” he said. Leonie grinned, curtsied.

“And you,” she said. Lorenz walked her to her room, bade her goodnight. The next morning preparations continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for all the unnecessary exposition early on. I had Strong Intentions to do Big Edits but my mood/energy got wiped for No Apparent Reason orz  
> We are gonna make it through 2020. we gonna! o(｀^´*)  
> apparently i'm really into dances now, which is hilarious because in school, I danced like a potato and socialized at dances like a potato :D But there's gonna be at least one more dance in this fic so eyyyyyy :D :D  
> \--  
> RECS  
> 1\. [Array Out of Bonds Error](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26735803/chapters/65225710) by whaleandjanuary. _The genius sorceress and inventor Constance von Nuvelle is presented with a mystery for the ages: What on earth is wrong with Felix Fraldarius? Answer: Who cares? She decides to research better mysteries, such as, "How many times do you have to tie a man up before he admits he likes it?"_  
>  This fic is super fun, and the Constance voice is so good, and Felix is very in character, and it makes me really wish sex shop AUs were a widespread thing (the joy of a coffee shop AU meets the horniness of the sex toy reviewer/porn star/camboygirlperson AU, it needs to be a thing)  
> 2\. Here's my """recipe""" for mulled cider, cribbed directly from the author's notes of another fic I wrote lol. Reviewers rave, "it's like drinking an apple pie," and if that isn't a recommendation I don't know what is.  
>  _MULLED CIDER  
>  Ingredients  
> \- Apple cider (1 big bottle or roughly 2 qts)  
> \- 2 cinnamon sticks (or more, or less, to taste)  
> \- 4 allspice berries (or more, or less, to taste. Or just regular allspice, sprinkled in until you like it)  
> \- 4 cloves (ormoreorlesstotaste, or just ground cloves, sprinkled in until you like the effect)  
> \- 1 star anise (or more, or none at all)  
> \- 1 sliced orange (or less, depending on the size of the orange) If you leave the peel on, don't forget to wash it_
> 
> _1\. Dump the cider into a pot and heat. You're aiming for warm but not simmering  
>  2\. Add all the other stuff, to taste. (I like the ladle some into a mug and sip it to check how it's coming.)  
> 3\. Let it heat up for "a while" (anywhere upwards of 10 minutes... depends on how much heat you use, etc)  
> 4\. Fish out the large pieces. Enjoy warm or cold!_
> 
> _You can also just dump some cider in a mug, sprinkle some spices on, heat it up, and drink that. I'm not here to judge._


	8. return to Gloucester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They dispersed after the battle to defend Garreg Mach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am updating TODAY and I WILL update TOMORROW.

They dispersed after the battle to defend Garreg Mach. Lorenz returned to his family home to assist with governance of their territories.

It was strange to be home. He’d been at the monastery for less than a year, practically no time at all, yet being back was very much like—oh, like pulling on an old pair of boots. The fit was familiar, but Lorenz was aware of areas of misfit as well as support that he’d been ignorant to before. Little things, like dressing formally for each meal, were easy to readjust to. The hardest was—the company. Put succinctly, Lorenz found he missed being around people his own age, as boisterous and frustrating as they could be. Gloucester Hall was busy, but it didn’t compare to the bustle of the Academy.

Ah, yes. Gloucester Hall was rather more busy than usual (and the atmosphere rather more tense) because of the, ah, situation with the Empire. Gloucester was not, Goddess and all Saints be thanked, at war, exactly, but they were in an extended state of highly delicate diplomacy. As his father put it, war was what happened when diplomacy failed, and Gloucesters did not fail.

The situation was sufficiently involved that Count and Countess Gloucester had broken with their customary division of labor, wherein the lady limited her attentions to matters of the house and its immediate surroundings and the lord managed everything else. The Countess Gloucester was forced by circumstances to assist her husband with inter-territorial negotiations. She smiled and listened and persuaded and mediated, all while making the very real work she was accomplishing seem effortless. It was—she was good at it, but the work itself, to say nothing of being in extended proximity to her husband, made her snappish in private.

Lorenz, for his part, assisted by taking a larger role overseeing affairs within Gloucester. It was engaging but not especially trying work, and of course it was useful experience for his future.

Lorenz did not expect to have to readjust to his room. He had slept in it almost his entire life, the only two exceptions being his infancy—which he did not remember—and his short time at Garreg Mach. It was so familiar, he could navigate it with his eyes shut.

His four-poster bed was fit for the heir to Gloucester. When he’d been a boy, the draperies had been white with purple flourishes, and he’d spent many happy hours playing in the middle of the bed with the drapes drawn to turn it into a council hall or a war room. He had planned many a campaign surrounded by pillow counselors and cushion generals. Over the years, his interests and tastes had changed (had his parents _really_ permitted him to sleep in a bed festooned with winged horses flitting among ornate roses? Gracious), but he had always found his bed, well, restful.

Upon his return to Gloucester, however, Lorenz suddenly found that—the draperies were too confining. For all that there was ample space between Lorenz and the lengths of fabric, he found he didn’t like how they blocked his view of the room. Similarly, he suddenly found that he did not like his window curtains. They were stylishly ornate, but his sleeping mind became convinced that they hid lurking figures, sheltered deeply improbable enemies. He—in truth, he wanted to have it changed, but the middle of an extended state of highly delicate diplomacy was hardly the time to raise a fuss about décor that had been of his own choosing. 

So Lorenz found himself growing more and more tired. It came to such a state that he resorted to—ugh—napping in his study. His study had a daybed under the window, and he found himself, on more than one occasion, dozing off there. It was embarrassing. 

It was his father who addressed the issue with him. Lorenz hadn’t foreseen any of this, but if he had, he wouldn’t have predicted it would be his father. The household was the his mother’s domain, after all. He hesitated on the threshold of his father’s study, not sure why he’d been summoned.

“Take a seat, son.” Lorenz lowered himself into the chair indicated, near his father’s own. His father produced some papers on which were drawn—schematics? Lorenz peered closer.

Oh. They were furniture. They were somewhat awkwardly rendered, as though the hand that had created them was more accustomed to working with wood than perspective drawing, but—Lorenz could see the artist’s intention.

“Your mother tells me that furniture, like clothing, follows trends in fashion,” his father said. “As if I didn’t already know that. But her point is that some of the rooms in the Hall are due for refurnishing. A local craftsman proposed these.” Lorenz looked at the papers rather than his father’s face. They appeared to be beds, but the designs were odd. His father’s broad finger tapped a spot on the paper. “These designs have shelves for books built into the headboard, suitable for keeping important objects close to hand. Much more elegant than hiding things under one’s pillow, wouldn’t you say?” Lorenz felt himself flush. He—he’d thought—he _had_ developed the, ah, the habit of keeping his tome to hand, even in sleep, but—he’d thought he had been discreet. Apparently not. Lorenz’s father tapped the paper again, softly. “Lorenz. When I returned from the Eastern Campaign, my lance was never farther than arm’s length. I have worked with this craftsman before. He is very skilled—though not at drawing—and extremely discreet.” _Oh._ That was—Lorenz hadn’t known. He bowed his head for just a moment before forcing himself to speak.

“Father. I—thank you,” Lorenz said, doing a barely adequate job of keeping his voice level. His father nodded, smoothed his hands lightly over the drawings.

“Of course, Lorenz,” he said softly. For a moment, they were quiet. Then his father cleared his throat and tapped a businesslike fingertip against the papers again. “Examine these and notify me of your choice by suppertime. If none of them appeal, draft a list of desired qualities and suggestions as appropriate. Understood?” Lorenz nodded, gathered the papers, and held them loosely against his chest. He felt lighter. 

“Understood.” He bowed. His father looked at him, clear-eyed, and nodded his approval.

Lorenz saw rather a lot of Claude, especially in those early months. It was not especially surprising; both of them were being trained to leadership within the Alliance and often attended roundtable meetings. What was somewhat surprising was that Lorenz also saw a lot of Lysithea. The Ordelias, though nominally one of the Five Great Houses, had for many years had confined themselves to a largely passive role at roundtable conferences. Now, though, Lysithea seemed to always be at Claude’s side. (In truth, the Five Great Houses were more like the Three Great Houses—Riegan, Gloucester, and Goneril—and the two medium houses of Ordelia and Edmund. But of course the titles were a matter of honor as well as tradition, and it would be terribly uncouth, not to mention terribly insensitive, to say such a thing aloud.) When she was not at his shoulder like a hunting hawk, she was writing ferociously, never with fewer than three books open around her.

At first, Lorenz didn’t think much about it, but after the third time he stumbled upon Lysithea staring stubbornly at a scratched-out page even as her shoulders drooped with tiredness, he took it upon himself to intercede. Somehow. In some way. She declined his invitations to take a break for a walk or for tea, and Lorenz already knew from experience that reminding her on the importance of rest would only irritate her, so what—oh. 

“Tea?” Lorenz asked. Lysithea scratched something out in her notes, didn’t turn away from her books.

“Busy,” she said tersely. Lorenz placed the tea set on a clear section of table before her, taking care to position the cookies he’d procured within her eye line. She didn’t raise her head, but he did see her eyes peek out from behind her bangs. “Are those your family’s special cookies?”

“They are,” Lorenz said. “The figs are grown in Gloucester, near the southern border, and the honey is—”

“I know where the figs are grown,” Lysithea said, now looking openly. “It’s close to Ordelia.” Ah, that—yes, it was. In fact, it was so close to Ordelia that—some years ago—the land they had been grown on had been _in_ Ordelia. While Lorenz tried to think of what to say—to apologize, or, or not apologize as he hadn’t been involved in the redrawing of the borders, but to at least acknowledge the circumstances—Lysithea picked up a cookie and took a bite. “Thaffs goo, tha’ you,” she said. Lorenz winced but managed to refrain from commenting on her atrocious manners.

“Let me pour you some tea,” he muttered, busying himself with that task.

“You don’t have to—thanks,” Lysithea said as he passed her the cup. “Smells good.”

“I am glad,” Lorenz said.

“I—Lorenz,” Lysithea said, suddenly peering into her teacup. “Thanks. This was nice of you, but I can’t be interrupted in my work.” Rather than sharp, she sounded—almost regretful.

“What are you working on?” Lorenz asked. She opened her mouth to answer, then hesitated. She closed her mouth and gave him a considering look. Lorenz waited.

“I’m trying to make Balthazar’s Rewriting Enchantment work with a delay in the looping function,” she said at length. Lorenz’s brows rose. 

“But how are you anchoring the enchantment? The sigil has to be drawn anew in purified water, or it doesn’t work—”

“I thought, if I could translate it to use air as a keyphrase, I could hook it into a gyre—”

“Why wouldn’t you simply use something like Valente’s Anadromous Current—”

Lorenz had meant to distract Lyisthea from her labors for a short time, but they ended up eating one-handed while talking over each other and passing books back and forth. It wasn’t the same as _resting_ , but some color came back to her face and her energy seemed restored, however temporarily. Besides, the problem she was working on was truly fascinating (although Lorenz had no notion of why one would want to make Balthazar’s Rewriting Enchantment work with a delay in the looping function, and he got so caught up that he forgot to ask)—and then, somehow, it was suppertime. Lorenz had to change before he dined with his father, so he bade his former classmate a reluctant farewell. She smiled faintly as she invited him to share more treats with her the next day. 

Lorenz, Claude, and Lysithea were often able to dine together during the day when roundtable conference were being held. It was at once nostalgic and—not. Although the Alliance was, by its nature, cooperative, the cooperation within its borders was rather more edged than that of the students at the monastery. Different too was the way Claude and Lysithea would often bend their heads together to confer in low voices when they thought themselves unobserved but break off when anyone approached him. Lorenz—he didn’t think it was bad manners in play, but rather something deeply wary in each of them. He wondered if this was another legacy of the Battle of Garreg Mach, to say nothing of the stresses they’d weathered on their additional missions with the Kingdom students.

It was still Lorenz’s habit to keep an eye on Claude. Therefore, it did not escape his notice that Claude occasionally ( _very_ occasionally) held an expression that Lorenz could only classify as lost. He did not know what to make of it.

Derdriu had a broad, high seawall that was a popular walking spot for residents and visitors alike. Winds blew off the water almost continuously, and the sight and sound of the waves was mesmerizing. Lorenz was walking the wall as evening fell when he caught sight of a familiar shape.

Claude still wore that stupid cape, and now it caught and flapped in the wind. His absurd braid, too, moved with each strong gust. The two elements of almost frantic movement were in contrast with Claude’s still expression. He was facing the ocean, his gaze trained on the water below. The low sun cast deep shadows as it gilded the peaks of the waves and the stones of the city. Lorenz couldn’t help but feel that the other boy was—on the verge of departure, somehow, like he was standing at the edge of something unknowable. Claude’s eyes were a muted color, the same almost-grey as the ocean below, sober and wary. His mouth was an unmoving, lightly downturned line. 

It was not an expression that belonged on Claude’s face. His countenance was made for—mischief, for smiling, for winking ridiculously. Claude was always looking towards the future, eyes bright and ready to take in the familiar and unexpected alike. This—Lorenz had seen him thoughtful, had seen him calculating and even concerned, but this expression—it was closed off in a way Lorenz had never seen. 

He was just about to leave when Claude’s eyes flicked to him. Lorenz hesitated. Claude looked back at the crashing waves.

“I asked around.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the crashing waves. He spoke without inflection, as though he were making a report. “They never found her body. They included her in the remembrance they held for all the others anyway. There wasn’t much time, but—Seteth and Flayn led it. I don’t think she ever saw a formal Church of Seiros funeral.” Oh. That—was how Claude looked when he was thinking of Professor Eisner, who no longer had a future. Claude made a faint noise, a ghost of a laugh, though there was no trace of lightness in his face. “Funny, that someone who knew almost nothing about the Church would catch the attention of the Archbishop herself.” 

“She was remarkable in many ways,” Lorenz said, voice faint in the buffeting winds and the sound of the waves. Claude breathed deeply, shook his head.

Lorenz didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. He didn’t—they had been given the order to evacuate when whatever had happened to Professor Eisner had happened. As Claude had said, her body had never been recovered. This might have led some to hope that perhaps there wasn’t a body, that she’d survived, but Lorenz—didn’t think so. She had been, by all accounts, a terror on the field of battle but at the end of the day she was as mortal as the rest of them. It was tragic, but—hope could cut as deeply as any blade, as his mother said. The balance of probability was simply that Professor Eisner was no longer among the living, but Lorenz had suspected that Claude had not uncurled his fingers from that blade. It appeared—that he was doing so now. All the students had been trained in field medicine, but no training had been offered for this. He gathered his courage and—reached out, placed a hand on Claude’s arm. Claude turned and looked at him, dry eyed. His brows went up, but the rest of his expression was still—distant, caught in the past.

“I’m fine,” he said. “No need to strain anything worrying about me.”

“I would never,” Lorenz said, ignoring the fact that his hand was still on Claude’s arm. “Otherwise I would be compelled to remind you that—you’re only human, and that you do have allies, and friends whom you can turn to when you are not. How fortunate that you are fine, of course.”

“Well I’ve always been lucky,” Claude said. There was lightness in his voice and his expression was coming back to life. The shadows were lengthening, and the wind blew his braid across his face. Lorenz had the strangest urge to—move it. Claude pushed it behind his ear carelessly as he said, “I should unearth Lysithea from the library soon. You heading that way?”

“I might be,” Lorenz allowed. Claude rolled his eyes, smiling faintly. 

“Come on, then.” He turned and walked towards the city, and Lorenz followed. Their shadows stretched ahead of them, and the ocean roared and the wind blew and the night crept in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The drapes Lorenz had on his bed when he left for the Academy were deep purple with an intricate design of roses and swirling lines in an almost-but-not-quite identical shade of purple. They were very elegant and understated and it was like sleeping inside a plum  
> \- The notion of, like, people having suites of rooms--like a bedroom and dressing room and tea room and office and a boudoir and blah blah blah--is mind-boggling to me but I have decided that Fancy Nobles in Fancy Noble Castle Houses probably have all that stuff, plus rooms that serve a similar function but aren't assigned to anyone.  
> \- Lorenz is totally stealing from Leonie's playbook when he starts ambushing with people about food, even if he doesn't think about it that way  
> \- I really miss Claude's little braid in his post-timeskip design  
> \- Next chapter: News comes from Fhirdiad  
> \--  
> RECS -  
> 1\. [Inverse Halo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24632803) by dango96. _Hubert wants to be hurt in bed. His brain won't let him. Byleth is, as always, relentlessly accommodating._ BDSM! :D  
> 2\. If you haven't read [If You Say It With Your Hands](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27087691) by nonisland, go check it out. Feat. Sylvain/Felix, heavy frottage, and feelings  
> 3\. If you want to read about Claude and Ashe hooking up for no reason, may I recommend my fic, [archery practice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25517044) or if you want to read about Yuri and Byleth, there's [with care and attention](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25233817) which was my first offering to this fandom (which makes me giggle because apparently my first instinct is to write sex. whoops!)


	9. Ascension

Months after the Battle of Garreg Mach, Lorenz received a letter from Leonie. She wrote that she and Raphael were embarking with a pair of brother-mercenaries, and that answering correspondence could be directed to the Happy Hog Restaurant in Kierwall. She had also enclosed within her letter some dried, pressed leaves. Lorenz did not know what to make of them, except that their colors, though faded, were rather nice. He laid them in a line along the upper edge of his writing desk and composed his reply.

Lorenz had excellent penmanship and was no stranger to the scholarly arts. Thus it was something of a surprise when his hand began to cramp. It was that discomfort that alerted him to the fact that he—he had written three tightly-spaced pages in response to Leonie’s single page. Oh, dear, that was not suitable. He carefully composed a second draft, this one limited to one page, and burned the original three pages. It would not do for anyone to come upon the original in all its excess. He sealed his letter and slipped Leonie’s, and its leaves, into his desk drawer.

It was an open secret that Duke Oswald von Riegan’s health was failing. Every person at the roundtable knew the reason Claude had been appearing in his grandfather’s stead for a year. When news came from Riegan that the Duke’s failing health had taken a turn from general to acute, many nobles hastened to Derdriu—including the Count, Countess, and heir of Gloucester. 

Gloucester was far from the only territory whose whole ruling family was in attendance. The Gonerils, Barcols, Albrechts, and Marltons were all present. Of the Edmunds, only the Margrave and his wife appeared, and Lysithea alone represented her family. The atmosphere was—tense. They had assembled ahead of the Duke’s death, but it would be the height of bad manners to say it aloud. In the meantime, there were informal face-to-face agreements to come to, shows to attend, and shops to patronize. Ghoulish as it was, it was true that there was a considerable influx of wealth to Derdriu in that time.

Events went something like this: news came from Derdriu that the Duke’s health was failing. The nobles of the Alliance assembled in the capital in preparation for a transfer of power. The Duke passed on, and preparations for the funeral and the Disputation began in earnest. 

By Lorenz’s understanding, in the Empire lords were called to vow fealty, to bend the knee. In the Kingdom the lords were summoned for confirmation, to pledge body and soul. In the Alliance they had the Disputation. It combined features of a formal ceremony, laden with symbolism, and an extremely protracted debate. Each Disputation phase harkened back to the birth of the Alliance—not the Rebellion of 801 nor the Crescent Moon War, but the first meeting when the noble houses convened, debated, and ultimately forged by their wits and wills the alliance that would grow into The Alliance.

Lorenz had first read about it as a child, and—in the way of children—was moved by the layers of meaning, starry eyed at the romance of it. He had—oh, he had dreamed of attending a Disputation. And thus it was, at the end of 1181, that he was _in_ the capital as preparations for a Disputation began, and then—two days after Duke Oswald von Riegan passed on, news came from Fhirdiad. 

It kept coming. 

Two days after Duke Oswald’s death: the first day of the Disputation was underway. A wyvern arrived bearing news of upheaval in the Kingdom capital. Grand Duke Rufus, regent to the throne, had been assassinated. 

The next day: Prince Dimitri had been implicated in the plot to murder his uncle.

Later the same day, long after dark: Prince Dimitri had been imprisoned and was awaiting trial.

The next day: Prince Dimitri’s trial date had been set. Somehow, impossibly, it was to take place _that day._

Then: Dimitri had been executed. High Court Mage Cornelia, backed by the western Faerghus lords, seized control of the throne and declared the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus to be a dukedom that bowed to the Adrestian Emperor. (Later, much later, Lorenz would wonder if—if _that_ was where Claude got the germ of the idea, if that was when his most outlandish scheme took root.)

Even across the Oghmas Mountains, the shock—the shock after shock after shock—of the news was felt deeply. It made itself known not only in the clipped tones at the roundtable, nor the flurry of conversation between meetings, but also in the bodies themselves of the people attending. Tension dug tight fingers into the base of the skull, stomachs churned with dread, sleep fled only to demand its due with interest. Uncertainty was a lion that paced the city streets, unseen and unheard but felt under prickling skin. 

Throughout all of this, the Disputation continued. It was considerably different from Lorenz’s boyhood dreams. To say nothing of _who_ was being confirmed for leadership—a Disputation was _extraordinarily long._ His texts had emphasized the symbolism of the different phases. The excruciating details had been omitted or downplayed, such as the endless rounds of representatives of _each_ noble house standing to ‘play demon’s advocate’ and raise objections to the presumptive leader’s appointment. These objections ranged from issues of genuine concern and good merit—for example, concerns about Claude von Riegan’s youth and lack of experience—to those which were symbolic—the Holwards always voiced opposition that stemmed of a land dispute with the Riegans, and the Albrechts always opposed because of the Riegan connection to Blaiddyd—down to the entirely unworthy, such as the objection that Claude did not _look_ like the leader of the Alliance ought.

“Neities, you seem to have forgotten, once again, that strict blood ties are not required when naming an heir,” Margrave Edmund said icily, “The law treats adoptive ties and blood ties with equal regard. I only wish you could. Even disregarding the massive disrespect you do to Oswald von Riegan’s memory by implying that he perjured himself when he attested that he _did_ have blood ties to Claude through his daughter Tiana, we cannot overlook that he has already been confirmed as a Riegan in the eyes of the law. The time to object to his claim to the Riegan name is long past.” Lorenz—had hoped that his father was going to be among those who stood to signify their strong support of the Margrave’s point, but he kept his seat. Count Gloucester did, however, nod firmly. That was—that was meaningful progress, Lorenz thought. A year (almost two) ago he’d been hostilely surveilling the Riegan heir on his father’s instructions. A nod was—progress. 

Lorenz knew, in truth, that a nod was not—not much. But it lodged in his memory, the motion, the careful mask of his father’s face, the way his own heart had squeezed, and squeezed harder when he thought (he _thought_ ) he saw Claude’s eyes track the motion, flick to Lorenz himself, the way Claude’s shoulders had (they _had,_ this part was not in doubt) set more firmly, the angle of his chin as it tilted up, ever so slightly. 

Many of Lorenz’s memories of his first Disputation (the only one he would attend) were—fragmented. There was simply too much happening. He remembered the broad strokes of events, and individual moments lodged in the memory, but the specific sequence of events, the flow of one thing into the next—no. It was all a jumble. He could reconstruct the order of events, if necessary, but that was not the same as remembering it properly. 

He did remember this: when the Disputation came to a close, when his family returned to Gloucester Hall, there was a letter waiting on his desk. It was grubby and battered from its long journey, and by the date upon it was nearly a month old. 

_Dear Lorenz,  
Look! I’m a poet now too!_

_There once was a lord from Gloucester  
whose friendship a peasant did foster.  
She pulled on his hair  
with nary a care  
for the lecture the action would cost her. _

_What do you think? I came up with that when we waiting for our dinner at an inn. The beer was piss, but it sure was cheap, as you can see from the quality of my poetry! Raphael sends his hellos and says to remind you to work your muscles as well as your brain. We are heading west after this. Ben says we should invest in warm clothes. Alan says not to bother. I think I might. Felix always made Fhairgus sound really cold. As always, letters sent to the Happy Hog Restaurant will reach me eventually._  
_Your friend,_  
_Leonie_

He was still in his riding clothes, his hair still windswept, and he—laughed, helplessly. He laughed and laughed and laughed, all out of proportion with the so-called poem Leonie had sent. And when he was done laughing, he carefully smoothed out her letter, refolded it gently, and tucked it with shaking hands into the drawer of his desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter did not want to be written, but here it is  
> \- I am making up SO MUCH stuff about Fodlan/Leicester rn. I figure if there are 5 Great Houses there must be a bunch of little houses too, so we're making up names now. *dances manically* In one of Lorenz's dialogue lines ingame, he says something to the effect that the 5 Great Houses have the voting power in the Alliance (implying that the others don't even get to vote) but I'm throwing that right out the window. Really, what happens is that there are lots of minor houses, and the minor houses generally have a Great House they follow (often because they owe money to them) so it's _like_ the--never mind, this is probably boring. But the punchline is that Acheron is the only house that doesn't follow directions.  
> \- I have strong interest in the how adoption works for Alliance nobles, but this one chapter is basically the only time I've given myself to even address it. Ah well.  
> \- Lorenz genuinely believes that it's normal for kids to be enraptured by symbolism and ritual. I genuinely believe he does not have a solid grasp on normal kid behavior  
> \- I thought Gloucester was pronounced differently for a while, so Leonie's poem originally read  
>  _There once was a man from Gloucester  
>  Whose hair had a particular luster  
> His friend would rush  
> To make him blush  
> Because he was so fun to fluster_  
> \- Marianne is in the next chapter, I think.  
> \--  
> RECS  
> 1\. Drink something that contains neither alcohol nor caffeine.  
> 2\. Please allow me to rec my own fic, [Five times the Blue Lions were normal about food (and everyone else was weird)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25855357) feat. some food-based worldbuilding and Lorenz getting punched in the face  
> 3\. [Dressing Down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27155837) by RoseisaRoseisaRose. _It's two hours before the Winter Ball and Leonie is trying her best to understand Lorenz's fashion sensibilities._


	10. ordinary

Leonie continued to write to him. Her letters were cheerful, sometimes more like journal entries than correspondence. She wrote about a meal she ate, about Raphael’s hair, about a tomcat she met. She wrote about a story told around a campfire without ever mentioning where said campfire was located. Lorenz could only rarely glean her location from her letters.

Sometimes she would send her letters with—trinkets. They were surely too, too esoteric to be considered _gifts._ Nevertheless, he found himself inspecting each one. 

Once, it was a rock. It was smooth, as if it had lain in flowing water for a long time, and cool to the touch. It was precisely the right size to fit in the palm of his hand. “Saw this rock when I was catching dinner,” she wrote. “The color reminded me of you!” It was a light purple with grey bands. He pictured his friend in some distant land, line in the water, tossing and catching the stone as she waited. He tucked it into the drawer of his writing desk, and often he took it out to turn over in his hands as he thought.

Many of the objects she sent were purple, in whole or in part. Based on the small collection of random objects that was slowly accumulating in Lorenz’s desk drawer, he could almost believe that every purple (or occasionally red) object Leonie encountered put her in mind of him. Evidence that it paid to have a well-defined color palette, perhaps. Almost every item she sent was something collected from nature, although Lorenz did not know if this was because of her frugality or because she was spending so very much time away from civilization.

Once, she sent a flat stone that carried the impression of a fern. Another time, she sent a small, white stone that seemed to be made of flattened, interlocked disks. _They call this kind of rock a desert rose,_ she wrote. _Pretty interesting! If Ignatz or Lysithea were here, maybe they could tell you how they form. Then again, maybe you know about them already. Seems like your kind of thing._ That sort of natural history was not Lorenz’s ‘kind of thing,’ but for a fleeting moment, he wished it were. He set it in the drawer of his desk, next to the stones, the feathers, the shells, and wondered which desert she was writing from.

The Empire kept itself busy with Faerghus, but it was only a matter of time before Adrestia turned its attention to the Alliance. Lorenz’s father sent messenger after messenger and letter after letter to Acheron in an attempt to imbue the Weathervane with something resembling resolve. Lorenz’s own mother even went so far as to grace Acheron with her presence.

“How did it go?” Lorenz asked upon his mother’s return. She stripped off her gloves with icy efficiency. 

“The man is an inbred streak of piss, and no amount of hair curlers or ill-advised fashion choices can distract from that,” she said. Lorenz felt his brows rise as soon as the curse left her lips. That was worse than he’d expected. She paused, tilted her head thoughtfully. At a formal dinner, such a gesture could capture the attention of all sitting nearby. Just now, it told Lorenz that whatever she said next would be worth hearing. “Lord Acheron has taken it into his head that the perfect complement to his curled hair are those curled shoes. Unfortunately, when I arrived, his toe-tips were rather more flaccid than is generally considered fashionable.” Lorenz bit his lip to keep from smiling. “...Which of course flustered the poor man to no end. You cannot imagine the lengths he went to to keep me from noticing.” Lorenz probably couldn’t, but what he could imagine was entertaining all on its own. “He must have had them re-stuffed while we were settling into our quarters. They were positively turgid when we emerged.” Finally, she looked at him and raised a single brow. “They got caught when he was showing me the gardens. He ended up in a rosebush.”

Lorenz’s shoulders were shaking now. She tilted her head again, her face a perfect mask of impassivity as she looked at him. “Son. A proper noble is in control of his countenance at all times.” 

“Yes, mother, my apologies,” he managed after a moment. He schooled his face to match hers, raised an artful brow of his own. “One must always maintain one’s poise.”

“Perfect poise at all times,” his mother agreed, her own mirth detectable only as a well-hidden sparkle in her eyes. “Very good.” They walked arm-in-arm into the keep. 

The first time Lorenz saw Marianne again, it was an overcast, windy day. He was at the Gonerils to play silent audience to tariff negotiations, and their hosts had granted them time to settle in. Lorenz was stretching his legs when he caught sight of a familiar shade of blue.

She was lovely, as always. Her hair was pinned neatly, and she was wearing a long dress of well-made, serviceable material. He was about to call out to her when another voice did so first. 

“Aunt Mari!” A girl of not more than eight bowled into her and clung to her skirts. “Aunt Mari, Kenneth said I could use the pump next because I was in line but Cathy cut in front of me and when I told her—”

“Did not!” another girl shouted, also running up to Marianne. “I was there first, and Rachel wasn’t even looking, so I don’t see why—”

“One at a time, please,” Marianne said, kneeling. The two girls kept talking, voices growing louder as each tried to be heard over the other. Marianne was smiling faintly, patience and kindness nearly radiating from her.

Lorenz, across the courtyard, felt—strange. He didn’t—he’d thought about her, of course, about where she was and how she was doing, and if she was safe—but he. So much had happened in the last few months, and she and Hilda had been in his thoughts—he’d been almost sick with worry some nights—but now here she was, alive and whole and _here_ and he—

The flutter he used to feel in his chest when he looked at her was gone.

It had been—oh, embarrassing and uncomfortable at times, but—it had been a part of him, and now it was gone. He didn’t know if he was fickle or if this was another thing the war was stealing away. Sometimes it had felt like his chest held a mass of worms, twisting and squirming, and sometimes it had been like a ball of light and now—he looked at Marianne and felt ordinary.

When the girls finally stopped speaking of their own accord, Marianne bent her head and addressed them in a soft voice. She seemed to be asking them a series of questions, from the way the children nodded or shook their heads. She listened as the children spoke. At length, one of the girls reached a hand out to the other. It was accepted, and Marianne stood and watched, smiling, as the girls left the courtyard hand-in-hand, talking happily.

“Lorenz, is that you?” a voice called. Lorenz turned, saw Hilda approaching him. She was carrying a bundle of some sort. As she approached, Marianne straightened and—smiled, at him, at them. She crossed the courtyard with fast, sure steps and came to a graceful stop in front of them.

“Lorenz,” she said with a smile. If anything, she was more beautiful than ever, more easy to love, and he—was glad he hadn’t said anything, was doubly glad he’d never even hinted at any interest to his father. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you,” Lorenz managed. They were both smiling at him.

They shepherded him towards a nearby storehouse, talking all the while. It transpired that, having assisted Hilda in shepherding the monastery’s children out of danger, Marianne had opted to stay in Goneril territory for some time. Many of the children had been reunited with their parents. Some could not be, though not all because their parents had been lost in the battle. The monastery had played safe harbor to more orphans than Lorenz had hitherto realized. 

Almost all the children had already begun training for a life of service, and therefore the question of what to do with them was easily answered. Lorenz had never before considered a noble household in terms of how many additional pairs of hands it could reasonably absorb, but it was certainly true that there was always work to be done and—by Cethleann’s grace—money to cover the doing. It seemed that the Gonerils and Edmunds had resolved to hire as many as they could in the short term, for training, but Lorenz got the distinct impression that Hilda planned to encourage them to seek work in the service of other families when their skills were sufficient. 

He was pleased to learn, too, that Marianne and Hilda had opted to support their charges’ education, even going so far as to turn one of Hilda’s chambers into an impromptu schoolroom. He couldn’t help but smile as they showed him the space. Just as Lorenz’s interests, past and present, were stamped upon his rooms, Hilda’s were apparent in hers. Fashion plates and jewelry designs adorned the walls, and much of the space was given over to cosmetics and accessories. Marianne’s regular presence in the room made itself known as well, though more subtly. A shawl that suited Marianne’s color palette lay over the back of a chair, and on a nearby table he saw a book of nature poetry. For a moment, he imagined—sitting in a place like this, with a cozy fire, curled up under a blanket with Marianne, peeking over her shoulder to discover what line of poetry had made her smile so softly. He—ached, a little, to think of it, but it was more like the ghost of a wish than the wish itself.

In a typical room of this design, the center would feature a low tea table and a stylish set of soft chairs with perhaps a loveseat. This arrangement, however, had been pushed to the edge of the room, almost all of which had been given over to a large, heavy table. Mismatched chairs were squeezed around it, and the table itself was nearly obscured by piles of books, slates and papers. Abandoned teacups perched precariously among the detritus. It was not at all cute or fashionable, and very clearly communicated that room’s owner had experienced a change in priorities of late. It made Lorenz feel strange to see.

“What do you think of Claude’s united-front policy?” Hilda asked, stirring her tea. He was certain he had never heard her voluntarily participate in a conversation about politics. He sipped his own tea to buy himself time.

“It is a good policy, for as long as he can manage it,” Lorenz said at last. “Neutrality won’t protect us when the Empire turns its attention away from Faerghus, but it may buy us time.”

“‘When?’” Hilda asked, nose wrinkling.

“Your father is among Claude’s most outspoken critics,” Marianne pointed out. Lorenz did not sigh, nor even blink.

“Gloucester borders the Empire. Hilda should understand, being a Goneril, the importance of allocating sufficient aid at strategic crossing points—” 

“I mean, I guess so? But reinforcing the Locket when we’re kind of at peace with Almyra is not the same as working on the Bridge. I mean, the Bridge is visible from the other side of the river, so it’d be pretty obvious, and I could see how that would make the Empire nervous.” 

“If the work had been completed earlier, this wouldn’t be an issue now, but—”

“But it is an issue,” Hilda said. 

“That was that trouble with the Weathervane, right? He was concerned about troops being moved through his territory?” Marianne asked.

“Do not speak of him,” Lorenz sighed. The matter she alluded to had taken place before their Academy days. His father had been furious, would to this day still seethe with anger if the matter was brought up. The Acheron family held the Myrddin Bridge, but the much wealthier neighboring Gloucester often bore the cost of repairs and labor. Yet when a proposal had been put forth to collectively share the burden of maintaining it, Lord Acheron himself had opposed it. Acheron preferred its larger, more prosperous neighbor to bear the cost alone.

“If the Bridge isn’t seen to now, it will have to be seen to later,” Marianne reminded Hilda. Hilda sighed and pouted. Lorenz reflected briefly on—how his heart should be fluttering at this evidence of Marianne’s hitherto unsuspected political interest. “Do you think your father will keep with Claude’s policy?”

“Yes,” Lorenz said, pulse racing uncomfortably. He was not sure if he was lying. “But it is the Weathervane we should worry about.”

“The Weathervane is predictable,” Hilda said idly. “It’s the ones who surprise you that you need to worry about.”

“None of this changes the fact that there are other bridges, in Gloucester and Ordelia, that would benefit from the work—” Lorenz began.

“None of them compare to Myrddin,” Hilda pointed out. Marianne and Lorenz went back and forth about the feasibility and payoff that could be had by working on the other bridges, and which devolved into a conversation about stonework across the Alliance. The conversation turned from there, making a detour into current fashions in Derdriu and lingering again on the futures of the monastery children before meandering to shop recommendations. They never did talk about—Marianne and Hilda’s departure from the monastery. There was both nothing to say—the thing was done and the world changing—and too much to say. Better to leave it lie.

When he returned to Gloucester, he found not only another letter from Leonie waiting for him, but also one written by Marianne and Hilda. He smiled to see it. 

When Lorenz was not helping his family with overseeing their territories, he often found himself corresponding with Lysithea. Lysithea’s research, though esoteric at times, was fascinating. Lorenz occasionally regretted that he hadn’t had more time at the Kingdom School of Sorcery (now, the Fhirdiad School of Sorcery) and working with Lysithea reminded him why. She had a deep knowledge of arcane magic and seemed to posses some understanding of dark magic as well. Lorenz had a solid grasp on arcane magic and some theoretical understanding of divine magic. When Lysithea was unable to find an elegant solution going back to first principles, Lorenz was often able to help her find a practical workaround. He was delighted to find several relevant texts in the Gloucester library and wrote to her of his findings right away.

When the needs of Lysithea’s research exceeded their combined understanding of how faith magic worked, it was his suggestion to ask Marianne. Her broadened spellcasting experience from her time as their Dancer was as much a boon as her divine magic studies. Letters flowed from Gloucester to Riegan (where Lysithea most often stayed) to Goneril (where Marianne could be found) and back again. 

The finest object Leonie ever sent was a comb. It was a delicate thing, made of lacquered wood and carved with rabbits and flowers. The flowers were a cheerful purple, and the rabbits had warm reddish-brown coats. It was, oh, objectively not that precious, not worth more than a meal, perhaps, but in light of the fact that she generally sent him things she found on the ground—he did not know what to make of it, until he read the enclosed note. _It’s a hare-brush!_ Then he _really_ didn’t know what to make of it. It did quite well to get the tangles out of his hair, however.

Unfortunately, the comb—it was too much for his mother to overlook. He knew there was going to be trouble when he sat down to breakfast with her (his father being absent due to a meeting with the minor western lords) and she folded her hands and gave him a sympathetic look. 

“Son, this… Leonie… she is a commoner?” she began. Oh, dear.

“… Yes.”

“And she is from our territories?” his mother pressed gently.

“… She is,” Lorenz replied. Oh, oh dear. Oh, no. This line of conversation could only go a few ways, and none of them was what Lorenz could call pleasant. He kept his back straight and his head up. “… I see,” she said at length. She looked at him—sadly, and with sympathy.

“She is only a friend,” Lorenz said. She tilted her head and gave him an even _more_ sympathetic look. “Truly.” Perhaps his dearest friend, admittedly, but his mother didn’t know that. 

“Lorenz,” she said, and stopped. “Darling, I, I saw the comb she sent you.”

“And the note?” Lorenz asked. She nodded, watching him with care. Of course she’d seen the note, and probably all the others, and the, the knickknacks too. It was perfectly natural in the course of things that the servants would see all of Lorenz’s possessions, and equally natural that his parents would want to remain appraised of broad strokes of his communications. Lorenz was never under any illusions as to the degree of privacy afforded by a noble’s life. “Then you know there is nothing but friendship between us.” _Hare-brush_ indeed.

“Yes, Lorenz,” she said comfortably, and at least this was not going to be _that_ conversation. “But the fact remains, my darling, that this girl is sending you—gifts.” Lorenz did not close his eyes and did not sigh, but he felt a weight settle in his chest. Oh, dear.

“They are almost nothing,” he offered, though he knew it was a weak defense. His mother gave him a look, at once sympathetic and determined.

“Dear heart,” she began. She took a breath, and Lorenz spoke before she could continue.

“Don’t say it. I. I know.” He did. 

“What do you know?” she asked, still probing, still—uncompromising, not just his mother but the Countess Gloucester. Lorenz took a breath, called forth the lessons of his childhood.

“Nobles must always be alert to attempts by the commonfolk to exert influence or curry favor. Any relationship between a noble and a commoner is inherently unequal because of the powers and privileges of our rank. Nobles can wage war, broker alliance, and declare or nullify laws within their territories. Commoners have no such power. To allow any relationship with a commoner to become overly familiar invites abuse.” He knew this, had known it since childhood. “Power, money, and rank are tools of coercion, or worse.” He _knew_ this. “If one party has all, and the other party has none—the results can be dire.” There was a time when Lorenz could, and likely did, recite this lesson in his sleep. “The problem becomes more intractable if the commoner is from one’s own territory.” It was a beautiful, sunny morning, and the light poured in through the windows and made the silverware shine. His mother, too, shone, elegant in her morning gown and flawlessly composed. Lorenz wished he felt the same.

“And?” she prompted. “For a noble to _accept_ gifts?”

“For a noble to accept a gift from a commoner is troubling as well,” Lorenz continued to recite. “It is vital to avoid even the appearance of favoritism, to say nothing of allowing oneself to accept bribery. Certain occasions, such as high holidays and regional celebrations may permit such, such familiarity, but otherwise.” He knew this, so why— “One must be circumspect. One must be able to guarantee certitude regarding not only the commoner’s character,” rough, admittedly, but not underhanded, “and intention,” simple, he thought, she seemed to enjoy nothing so much as, as helping the people around her, “but also their—their expectation for the transaction.” He didn’t know. He thought—she just liked to bring people things, sometimes, to see them smile. Perhaps. “In light of the tremendous difficulty in truly predicting another person’s internal life, it is simplest overall to politely and uniformly refuse all gifts.” 

“Good,” Countess Gloucester said. “And?”

“ _And,_ ” Lorenz’s breath caught. “It’s just a _comb,_ ” he found himself saying, “It couldn’t have been more than, than a few silver—”

“I had no idea a noble’s integrity was a matter of haggling over the price,” Countess Gloucester said.

Lorenz knew he should—he knew what he needed to say, he knew this was not a, a ~~fight~~ discussion in which his perspective would prevail, but—

“It’s just a _comb,_ ” he found himself repeating, at rather a louder volume than was warranted by a, a simple review of standards of behavior for the nobility. Lorenz—his mother was looking at him with the exquisite stillness that characterized her surprise. He became abruptly aware that he—his blood was thin and too hot in his veins, and his breathing was elevated, and he, his hands were shaking—Goddess, he hoped that wasn’t _visible_ —and he leaned back into a proper noble’s proper seated posture, and said calmly, “Please forgive my outburst, mother.”

“Oh, Lorenz,” she said, and her eyes were dark and sympathetic, and—he didn’t want her sympathy. Lorenz loved his mother. He adored her and revered her and knew, already, that he was probably—she was probably right, and when he’d calmed down he would see that, but, but right now—he didn’t want her _sympathy._ She opened her mouth, but he spoke first again.

“I’ll send it back,” he said, pushing the words out in a rush. He felt—humbled, and, and grateful, he _did_ , to his mother, to both his parents for, for raising him so conscientiously, for shaping him into a true noble, and he— he just needed a moment to—to absorb the lesson. To allow it to, to shape him more fully. That was. That was what he needed. He rose to his feet, clasped his hands politely behind his back, said, “Please excuse me. It is better that I rectify this situation at once.” His mother—nodded, once, but her eyes were, were ~~troubled~~ dark and, and he could see the love she had for him in them, and he nodded in return and turned on his heel and walked out of the room. 

~~He fancied that she opened her mouth, held her hand out to stop him as the door was shutting, but that couldn’t be.~~

_Dear Leonie,_  
_I thank you most sincerely for the charming token you sent me in your recent missive (one whimsically decorated ‘hare brush’—how droll!), but I must beg of you to accept its return. I believe you are already cognizant of my personal policy regarding the exchange of goods between members of the peerage and the commonfolk. Please find said item enclosed with this piece of correspondence._

_I bid you not to think that the return of this item is in any way a repudiation of your comradeship. Your friendship is more valuable than any mere token, and your continuing correspondence is ‘gift’ enough._

_Sincerely,_  
_Your friend,_  
_Lorenz Hellman Gloucester_

There was a delay whenever Lorenz wrote to Leonie. She could send her letters to Gloucester Hall for him to read at once, but letters for her had to wait until she returned from wherever she journeyed. All this was to say that after sending back the comb, there was a queasy interval of several months in which he was never sure if _this_ would be her response to the return of her—gift. During this interval, her letters continued to find him, and they continued to be cheerful and vague about the specifics of what she was doing and where, and they sometimes continued to contain—curios, mostly leaves and pleasing stones. His parents hadn’t commented on the curios, but he was uncomfortably aware of the way his mother looked at him when Leonie sent an object that could be felt through the paper. They didn’t _mean_ anything; they were just—trinkets. (They were just trinkets he liked to look when he was feeling fretful, liked to handle when he was missing—simpler days, with less strife and more harmless absurdity.) 

Her return letter, after she finally picked up her mail, was brief, polite, and bloodless. He didn’t—it was like—he couldn’t imagine his former classmate saying anything so bland, not to someone she hated, not to someone she considered a friend, not even to someone she had just met. He didn’t know what to make of it. 

So he was in something of a state when he accompanied his father to Derdriu for another roundtable meeting. They had time before the meeting began, and Lorenz asked his father for leave to visit a bookstore. Unbeknownst to Lysithea and Marianne, he had ordered a special tome of magic, one which had the potential to be very useful to their combined work. His father granted his request and said that he would like to stretch his own legs so they should walk together. 

It was early evening. Lamps were being lit in the streets, offering an almost dreamlike softness to the shadows stretching across the city. The sky overhead was being pained by the sunset, and an uneven layer of clouds gave it texture. The sound of the ocean was omnipresent in Derdriu, and tonight the air seemed especially soft. It was a shame, therefore, that Lorenz was too uneasy to appreciate the night’s charms.

“Lorenz,” his father said as they passed a sweetly flowing fountain. “It has not escaped notice that you are agitated.”

“Ah.” Lorenz—was embarrassed. It was unbefitting for a noble to be emotional in public.

“Does,” Lorenz’s father looked—to Lorenz’s practiced eye—uncomfortable, “It have something to do with the letter you received from your commoner?”

“It is nothing,” Lorenz said. An almost imperceptible expression passed across his father’s face, one that Lorenz was fairly certain meant _good._

“The problem with associating with commoner women is that they will try to manipulate you with their displays of emotion. Your mother would have you avoid them altogether, but she is prone to hysterical emotion herself.” Hearing his parents speak about one another was not always comfortable. Lorenz held his tongue, as he always did. The last time Lorenz could remember his mother being anything resembling hysterical was when she’d been coldly furious that his father had wanted to keep his mistress in their second-best guest quarters. Infidelity was one thing (and, in truth, his mother had no standing to object), but there were still appearances to maintain, polite fictions to observe.

“This is to say, son, that if you want to keep your peasant, you may, but be careful not to let it cloud your judgement.” In a less refined man, this last sentence might have been delivered with a paternal pat on the back, or a friendly clap on the shoulder. As it was, Count Gloucester gave his son a knowing look and faint but conspiratorial smile. Lorenz smiled wanly. He had the uncomfortable impression that his father was somehow proud of him for sullying some poor girl’s reputation. That Lorenz had not sullied anyone somehow failed to dispel his discomfort. “As for the trinkets—your mother is being inflexible. It will take me some time to persuade her.”

“You needn’t go to the trouble,” Lorenz said faintly. Truly, the matter of the comb was—nothing, it was nothing. 

“Nonsense.” They arrived at the bookstore shortly after, which was something of a relief. They could talk about books, or authors, or anything other than Lorenz’s epistolary habits. His father raised a brow when he saw what Lorenz was buying but didn’t comment. On the way back to their rooms, Lorenz tried to engage him in conversation about the magical problem he and the others were working on, but, well, his father had no particular gift for magic nor any strong interest in it. He’d inherited his magical talent from his mother, and she had been the one who insisted Lorenz should attend the Kingdom School of Sorcery. Like Lorenz’s father, she had never been taught magical theory and had no real interest in hearing about it. Nevertheless, his father did try to show interest as Lorenz struggled to explain what the book was for, how it related to the problem he and the others were working on, and why it was worth doing.

The next day, Claude found Lorenz as he was walking the corridors of Derdriu Capitol.

“Ah, Claude, have you seen Lysithea?” He was looking forward to showing her the book he’d purchased. 

Claude shook his head. Come to think of it, it was unusual to see Claude without Lysithea at his side. Lorenz looked behind the other boy—these days he was almost always attended by a bevy of retainers; perhaps Lysithea was hidden from sight speaking to one of them? But he didn’t locate her.

“I gave her the day off,” Claude said, and his expression was briefly strange before it smoothed into his familiar, easy smile. “She was working too hard.” Lorenz resisted the urge to make a face at Claude. It seemed unlikely that Lysithea would simply rest, even at the behest of the Alliance Leader himself.

“Is she well?” Lorenz asked instead.

Another one of those strange expressions flitted across Claude’s face, there and gone in the blink of an eye, before he said, “She’s a little under the weather, that’s all. She’ll be up and on her feet again soon, believe me.”

“Very well,” Lorenz said, feeling strangely uneasy. “I have this book for her; perhaps I could take it to…?” Claude was already shaking his head. 

“Better to wait; if you wave something even remotely interesting under her nose, she’ll be up again and not even a team of pegasi could stop her.” That was true enough. “But hey, it’s been a while since you and I had time to talk. Have lunch with me.”

Lorenz accepted the invitation, and Claude dismissed all but one of his attendants. Instead of dining in the Capitol, they made their way to a restaurant of Claude’s liking. 

“Hanneman’s here, by the way,” Claude said after they ordered. Lorenz almost knocked over his drink.

“Professor Hanneman?” 

“He isn’t our professor any more,” Claude said. Lorenz gave him a withering look, which only made the other boy smile. Impossible person. “Yeah, he was in Ordelia, but he finally came to Derdriu, this week in fact. If you need someone to be giddily incomprehensible about magic with, he might have time. He’d probably like to see you.” 

“How long has he been in the Alliance?”

“Since Faerghus—well. He was at the School of Sorcery there and left in a hurry. You didn’t know?” Claude seemed genuinely surprised.

“I did not,” Lorenz said. He was—he’d had no notion. That made it more than a full year since he had come to the Alliance. Claude rested his chin in one hand and looked thoughtful.

“Huh. I mean, he’s been trying to keep a low profile, being from Adrestia and fleeing Faerghus and all, but I thought maybe Lysithea would have told you. Nothing?” 

“Not a word.”

“She can be secretive when she wants to be, huh,” he said ruefully. He sighed and for a moment looked—serious. Then the moment passed, and he smiled at Lorenz again. “So tell me, what’s got you looking like someone stole your poetry journal?”

“I don’t have a poetry journal,” Lorenz lied. Claude didn’t dignify this with a response, only tilted his head expectantly. “… It is nothing,” Lorenz said at length. Claude surprised him by laughing. 

“Good! I want to hear about nothing, for once. People only ever tell me somethings these days. Big somethings, urgent somethings. Tell me all your nothings, please.” He looked—he seemed to mean it. His eyes were suddenly bright with interest, green as new leaves in spring, and his face was animated in a way Lorenz realized he hadn’t seen in some time. He grinned at Lorenz and raised his brows. “I’ll even trade you, nothing for nothing.”

“You are ridiculous,” Lorenz muttered. This only caused his companion to smile more widely. Impossible person. Claude hooked his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, waiting. Lorenz sighed. “It is petty.” 

“ _Good,_ ” Claude interjected. Lorenz resisted the urge to make a face at him.

He meant only to admit that his father had offered him advice which had not resonated, but—Claude, troublemaker that he was, promptly pried the surrounding details from him. Their food arrived during this process. 

“I still don’t understand what the problem with the comb is,” Claude said at last. He dunked a piece of bread in his soup and took a bite. “She’s your friend, and friends give gifts.”

“It’s—” Lorenz sighed. “It is unethical for a noble to accept gifts from a commoner. It’s not always a good idea from a fellow noble, come to that.”

“Why?” Claude asked, ripping another piece of bread off his roll. Lorenz stirred his spoon in his soup.

“No good can come of allowing one’s favor to be bought. Nobles have too much power, and there is too much room for corruption and abuse—”

“But you’re not the Count yet, and even _if_ Leonie was the kind of person who would try to bribe you, which she’s not—” 

“I _know_ that—”

“You still couldn’t be bought for a _comb._ You care about your hair, but not that much.” 

“A noble’s honor should not be a matter of haggling over the price,” Lorenz said coldly.

“What, that’s stupid. First of all—”

“What do you mean, ‘stupid?’” Lorenz demanded. Had he said it wrong, or perhaps—

“You _do_ hit a point where a difference in scale becomes a difference in kind,” Claude said carelessly, waving his spoon in the air. “Secondly—” 

“If you would set laws to favor one group over a large gift, who’s to say you would not be influenced by a small one—”

“I’m pretty sure everyone has their price, if you’re willing to find it. A man might face his own death unflichingly, but his family’s? Different matter.”

“What is wrong with you?” Lorenz finally asked. Claude shrugged.

“If someone said they’d set all of Riegan to the torch, I’d at least listen.”

“That’s a _threat_ , not a bribe.” 

“The bribe is, if I listen, they won’t do it, right?”

“No.”

“Threats and bribes are just two sides of the same coin,” Claude said, calmly. Lorenz was fairly sure that was wrong, for reasons he couldn’t articulate yet. 

“No,” he said again.

“Fine, then—a man might not care for money, but there’s always something he wants. Especially if you only need him to bend the rules, just a bit. Just once. Just for you.” 

“You—don’t believe there is such a thing as a truly honorable man? A man of integrity?” Lorenz had not intended to sound so—plaintive. Claude opened his mouth, paused, closed it. A pause ensued in which—Claude did not look at Lorenz, and Lorenz found himself looking past Claude. This—conversation of nothings had taken a turn somehow. 

“I believe,” Claude said at last, as if his words were coming from a long way off. Lorenz looked at him. He was still looking away. “That humans are really, truly, fundamentally the same when you get down past all the layers of upbringing and custom and situation. We already know the people across the Airmid River, and the Oghmas, aren’t that different from us. You think the people across Fodlan’s Throat, or up past Sreng aren’t the same as us too? And I think that… pettiness, and mistrust, and selfishness are baked into what it means to be human. No matter where you go in the world, you’ll find people who lie, cheat, and steal.” He took a long breath and spoke again.

“But no matter where you go, you’ll also find people who choose not to. I think that’s the real wonder of us: that every day, no matter where you are, you can find someone choosing to put aside all the selfish things they want for someone else, or something else, even if it’s just for a moment. So no, I don’t really believe in an honorable man because—I think people are just… creatures of possibility. So even though there’s always a chance that you might choose to do good, there’s always the chance that even the most decent, honorable man will choose to be selfish, just when you need him the most.” 

He stopped speaking, still didn’t look at Lorenz. He did, however, make a show up picking up his spoon and having some more of his soup. 

“I would argue,” Lorenz said, feeling like his own voice was coming from very far away. “That there is such a thing as honor and integrity. Integrity is when you choose, consistently, to uphold your ideals even when it’s hard. You keep your word, you follow your duty, and you help those in need. It’s not a—a concrete thing, but it exists; it’s real. It’s an action, a pattern of actions taken over the course of your whole life. And if you do that, if you do what you know is right even when it’s not what you want, then you are a man of honor.” 

Claude looked at him now. 

“And if you make a mistake, or you have a moment of weakness, then what?” he asked. He picked up his roll again, tore off a piece and dipped it in his soup.

“What do you mean?” Lorenz took up his spoon, drew it through his soup without interest.

“If you’re doing good, you’re on a roll, you’re doing the right thing, and then you mess up. What then, you lose all your honor?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lorenz said. He had some of the soup. It was rich and warm. He had another spoonful.

“If you mostly do the right thing, but you do something minor that goes against your ideals, what about then?” Claude pushed. Lorenz thought of—the curios in his desk, of how badly he’d wanted to keep the comb, all out of proportion with the thing’s value. He thought of a bloodless, impersonal letter from someone he’d counted as a friend. For a moment, just a moment, hurt welled up. Then he mastered himself again, reached out and took a perfectly poised sip from his drink.

“You are trying to goad me into saying that honor and integrity are not binary functions, that they exist in greater and lesser degrees. But I maintain that when people settle for ‘good enough,’ they begin—even invite—the slide towards selfishness, indifference, and cruelty.”

“Sounds exhausting,” Claude said, and set his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand. His eyes were level as they surveyed Lorenz, and something about them made him feel curiously—steadied. 

“Yes, well,” Lorenz said and sipped his drink again. “What is worth doing is seldom easy.” 

“I’ll drink to that,” Claude agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: [oneletterdiff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneletterdiff/pseuds/oneletterdiff) did an [_amazing piece of art_](https://twitter.com/oneletterdiff/status/1326628174768168961) and everyone should go see it and give them some love! It's completely dear and I love it T_T  
> \--  
> \- I am a clown and f'ed up the formatting for this chapter and accidentally posted it as i was fixing it SO HERE, surprise chapter! orz  
> \- this chapter didn't want to be written, so i (accidentally) post it with thanks to all the folks who helped midwife it into existence  
> next chapter: LEONIE


	11. the Baron of Marlton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey, stranger, remember me?” Leonie smiled at him.

Leonie’s letters went back to normal in short order. Other than that one, strange letter, she never alluded to the return of her—gift.

She never sent so much as another pebble either. 

Lorenz was glad, of course. His life was simpler if such frivolous distractions were avoided altogether, and he was better able to focus on his duties without such things cluttering his mind.

Over the next year and a half, Lorenz’s involvement with the administration of Gloucester increased. In addition, he began a correspondence with Professor Hanneman, whose research into Crests seemed to be on a path of convergence with the study of healing magic. On the occasions he spoke with Marianne in person, it was obvious that she was also assisting Hanneman (who insisted on the use of his name sans title, arguing that it was one he no longer merited). Lorenz had thought that Hanneman and Lysithea—being both gifted in magic and immersed in the scholarship—were working on some joint project, but there appeared to be no overlap in their areas of research. He must have been mistaken.

The medical bent of Hanneman’s research was, in some ways, unsurprising. The situation with the Empire continued to be tense. Eastern Faerghus fought the Empire at every turn, and even in the allegedly pacified west there was a certain amount of covert resistance. The Empire continued to nibble at the Alliance’s southern border, testing the strength of Gloucester. (Technically, Gloucester, Acheron, Ordelia, and Goneril all had a presence on the southern border, but—well. Goneril’s southern tip was essentially a sheer cliff dropping into the Airmid. Ordelia—the extent to which it bordered the Empire was not what it once had been, nor was its strength. Gloucester purple had long since become a familiar sight in Ordelia, and if the situation with the Empire continued, it was guaranteed to stay that way. Gloucester’s presence along the southern Ordelian border was motivated by a mixture of fraternity, pity, and opportunism that made Lorenz uneasy; that Ordelia accepted it made him—sad. And Acheron… best not to speak of Acheron.) In short, Hanneman’s interest in how Crestology might intersect with the healing arts made grim sense to Lorenz. 

Gloucester was holding the border, but the hardships of doing so were not helped by the roundtable’s injunction to maintain the appearance of neutrality. Lorenz understood _why_ the roundtable had decided thusly, but—Gloucester soldiers were being attacked, and Gloucester citizens were being preyed upon, and _neutrality_ meant that, officially, Gloucester’s people were being attacked by ‘bandits.’ They were obviously bandits and not Empire soldiers because their Adrestian insignia were always covered for each raid, and their mages wore birdlike masks that entirely concealed their faces and made it impossible to identify them as in the Empire’s employ. Intellectually, Lorenz understood that the Alliance Leader’s insistence on official neutrality made no difference to the wounded and dead, but—it rankled. 

Not everything that happened during that period was frustrating, deadly, or worrisome. For example, some of Leonie’s letters contained scribbled drawings. They were never very technically impressive, but they were charming nonetheless. The one of a blob-headed Ignatz clutching his head while a blocky Raphael and rectangular Leonie danced on a breaking table was made Lorenz smile. Raphael and Leonie wore matching expressions of exaggerated surprise, while Ignatz frowned so hard his mouth extended beyond the confines of his head. Lorenz smiled as he held it, could imagine that the scene clearly.

Another pleasant event was the hiring of a handful of servants from the Gonerils. Most of the children Hilda and Marianne had shepherded to safety were sufficiently trained—and sufficiently mature—to leave the Gonerils’ and Edmunds’ service for employment elsewhere. Gloucester Hall welcomed a group of four siblings. Once they were settled in, it was as though they’d always been a part of the household. They seemed to be everywhere, tidying this, fixing that, bringing things and taking them away. Lorenz didn’t know if it was because of their upbringing at the monastery or some trick of Hilda and Marianne’s training, but even his mother remarked that they were the most helpful and unobtrusive servants she’d ever known.

_Dear Lorenz,_   
_If you’re ever by Goneril, keep an eye out for a knight with big muscles and a skinny one wearing glasses. That’s right, Raphael and Ignatz are working for Hilda’s family! It’s a big change. The armor looks good, and I talked to some of the other knights here, and they seem pretty happy. It’s what Ignatz and Raphael wanted, and it’s what their families need, so I hope it works out. ~~I miss them.~~ ~~Do you ever get lon~~_

_A knight’s life isn’t for me though! Hilda has me taking something over to Claude. Maybe if the roundtable is meeting, I’ll see you there. Probably not, though. We never seem to cross paths! It’s too bad. I don’t know what I’ll do after I finish this job. This is the first time I’ve been on my own instead of part of a company. Hilda said I can have mail sent to Goneril, so please direct any future letters there for now._

_The road is calling! Sincerely,_  
 _Your friend,_  
 _Leonie_

Her letters came less frequently after that. As far as Lorenz could ascertain, she was traveling both within the Alliance and in Faerghus. She was rarely explicit about where she was going, what she was doing, or at whose behest, but—she did mention Galatea once. At another point, she indicated that mail for her should be sent to Derdriu rather than Goneril. 

His favorite letters to receive were the ones with pictures. They were infrequent, but he always smiled when he received one. His favorite was a picture she’d drawn of herself, frowning heavily, wearing a wool cap and a comically large fur cloak while shivering. Picture-Leonie was surrounded by cheerful, bearded men in vests. Evidently, the people of Gautier scoffed at soft southerners who didn’t know what ‘real cold’ was.

Time passed, sometimes easily and sometimes with struggle, and Lorenz’s collection of correspondence—from Leonie and Lysithea and others—grew and grew. 

_Dear Lorenz,_   
_I broke my leg! Because of some stuff, the healers couldn’t fix it up all the way, so I have to let it finish healing the old-fashioned way. Stop making that face, I’m fine. Anyway, I’m crashing at Hilda’s for the time being. She said that if you have time, you can come visit! You should, it would be nice._

_The Gonerils are a very cheerful family. Marianne’s here too. I guess you and she have been writing letters too? (Good for you!! But, uh, be careful. I don’t think she’s exactly looking for a husband right now.) Raph and Ignatz send their hellos. Ignatz says to thank you for the business your family’s been doing with his family. Raphael says if you come visit, you’ll be amazed at how big his muscle are now. They’re pretty big!_

_I’ve been going a bit crazy over here since I’m not allowed to get up and walk around, so Hilda’s been teaching me to make jewelry. I make these little bracelets from knotted string and beads and things. I think I’m getting pretty good! They don’t look like much, but I might send a few to Sauin, with some twine and beads. The kids there can probably figure out a way to make them cuter, and it’s something to do inside when the winter comes._

_Hope you are well! Sincerely,_   
_Your friend,_   
_Leonie_

Lorenz, to his regret, never did make it to Goneril. By the time border negotiations wrapped up (inasmuch as they ever _wrapped up_ ), more than two months had passed. He wondered what sort of jewelry a person like Leonie would make. He suspected he found out when the bracelets Lysithea sent changed.

They had been experimenting with artifact enchantment for some time, and Lorenz was familiar with the subtleties of both his own and Lysithea’s handiwork. Objects used in magical workings, or that were imbued with magic, often had a kind of aura. Vulneraries and elixirs had a living, radiant aura. Every Relic Lorenz had ever encountered had auras that were menacing, almost resentful, that reflected their histories of bloodshed and central roles in struggles for power.

Even before being imbued with magic, the bracelets he and Lysithea made carried faint impressions of their makers. Lysithea had once noted in passing that Lorenz’s creations were precise, each element in exactly the correct place. Lysithea’s handiwork accepted Lorenz’s magic readily, absorbing it almost hungrily. When Marianne had been participating in the research, before becoming wrapped up in Hanneman’s work, her creations had taken the magic easily and held it with unwavering patience.

Lorenz knew, as soon as he began the enchantment on the new bracelets, that they had not been crafted by a magic user, and it was a mark of his and Lysithea’s success that the thing was still viable as a vessel for the enchantment. Nevertheless, as Lorenz ran probing fingers over the knotted cord and the beads, he had an impression of—an eagerness to face the world, and a kind of cheer to be part of it. It made him smile, a little, and when he was done laying magic into each of the bracelets, he found himself lingering over them, touching each of the beads to feel that energy again.

Somehow, the Acheron situation managed to deteriorate further, with the Weathervane officially declaring in favor of the Empire. 

Lorenz’s father put forth a proposal for Acheron to be stripped of his title and his land seized—which would enable Gloucester to defend against Imperial forces establishing a stronghold in Alliance territory—which was rejected. It was enraging but not at all surprising. 

Although the Alliance Charter had provisions for dissolving a noble house and redistributing their lands, they had never been used. Power at the roundtable was distributed in such a way that if the Minor Houses voted unanimously, they could block decisions by the Five Great Houses. To strip Acheron of his power, at least one minor house needed to break rank, and the Minors Houses were exceptionally wary of setting such a precedent. 

Thus, Lorenz’s father put forth the proposal, the Great Houses voted in support, and the Minor Houses unanimously opposed. 

In spite of openly defying the will of the Alliance Leader as backed by the roundtable, Acheron’s lands remained sovereign long enough for him to willingly submit to the Imperial boot. The Empire established a foothold on the Alliance side of the Airmid, and holding the border became that little bit harder.

Almost five years after leaving Garreg Mach, Lorenz was dispatched by his father to attend a ball being hosted by the Baron of Marlton to celebrate his wife’s birthday. He was circulating the room, seeing who was present, when there was a tap on his arm. He turned, stared.

“Hey, stranger, remember me?” Leonie smiled at him.

“Leonie,” he said faintly. She was resplendent in a deep blue ballgown. The skirt formed an elegant bell, and the neckline was cut high, hugging her throat. Her shoulders were bared, revealing arms that were noticeably more muscular than those of most noblewomen. Her hair was twisted up in an elegant knot at the back of her head. 

“We have the same haircut again,” she said, surprising him. He almost laughed aloud, managed to contain himself to a mere smile. She—the way she spoke, it was almost like no time had passed, like they still saw each other every day and Fodlan was at peace. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Oh, uh, Hilda brought me?” Leonie said. She looked—Lorenz wasn’t quite sure. Embarrassed, perhaps. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen the expression before and regretted putting it on her face. “We… Because of reasons, I ended up going back to Goneril, and the invitation came for this shindig, and yeah. So here I am.” She shrugged, an oddly lost gesture.

“Well, whatever brought you here, I am grateful for it,” Lorenz said, and then wished he could take back the words. But then she smiled, and—well, what was the occasional conversational misstep between old friends?

“Have you eaten anything?” she asked. Of course she did. Lorenz experienced a moment of absurd fondness. “There’s some really good stuffed mushrooms. You’ll like them.” 

“I have not. Please lead me to these fungi,” Lorenz said. He followed her to the refreshments and couldn’t stop peeking at her, this figure from his past, trying to see how the years had changed her and what had remained the same. She’d been broken of the habit of putting food on other people’s plates, it seemed. When he saw how little she’d added to her own plate—surely not enough to sustain her, though he’d seen noblewomen eat like birds often enough—he had the oddest desire to press more food upon her. Lorenz wondered for a moment if there was some—natural balance that had to be maintained, wherein one of them was always attempting to feed the other. The notion was equal parts amusing and alarming. 

It would be most proper for them to stay near the bustle deeper in the room, but the double doors along one wall had been thrown open to admit the soft and refreshing night air. He and Leonie drifted in that direction, came to a gentle stop.

“You look lovely,” Lorenz’s mouth said without his volition. He—it was true, she did, she looked very well, but he had not meant to say it. It was conventional to compare noblewomen to elegant, graceful swans or delicate, sweet songbirds, but Leonie was not a noble and Lorenz was put in mind of a hawk: sleek and watchful. 

“Thanks,” Leonie said into her drink. She—Lorenz had made her uncomfortable. She was not meeting his eyes. Lorenz despaired of himself. She added in a mumble, “You look great too.” Lorenz—fidgeted. He—he always tried to dress to his advantage, but usually when people commented on his appearance he understood their motives. This he didn’t understand at all. A wordless moment passed, and then Leonie said, “Yeah, so, I’d take my hair down so you could see it’s the same as yours, but Hilda would kill me.” 

“That won’t be necessary,” Lorenz managed weakly. One did not simply take one’s hair down in the middle of a formal event, no matter how curious one’s companion might suddenly find himself about the notion. It was—it simply wasn’t done. Casting about for something to say, he asked, “Where have you _been_ the last few years?”

Mercifully, Leonie laughed. 

“Oh, all over the Alliance, and the Kingdom too,” she said, and finally the—strange tension broke, and it was just Leonie again. Lorenz would have thought he remembered the sound of his friend’s laughter—he’d heard it often enough, frequently directed at him—but the sound left him pleasantly unsettled.

They were deep into a conversation about her travels—she had traveled such great distances, spoke with careless familiarity of places Lorenz had read about in histories and seen in great paintings—when Leonie suddenly excused herself. Lorenz didn’t know what to make of it. She made her way across the room, heading for a familiar head of pink hair. Ah, Hilda. Between one moment and the next, he lost sight of them both. Well, he did have social duties to uphold. He hadn’t been sent to Marlton to socialize with Leonie, though Goddess knew he had been happy enough to do it. He made his way through he room, talking to people he knew, and couldn’t help but feel that the breeze blowing in from the night was slightly colder than he liked. 

It wasn’t until later in the evening, when the dancing was already underway, that Leonie appeared again. She—oh, goodness. Her hair was down. Lorenz was not—he didn’t—that was to say—

She had stretched the truth. Her hair was about the same length as his, but the style was different. Lorenz’s was all of a piece, long and straight, precisely cut. Leonie’s looked very soft, with a slight wave to it. It was—Lorenz was almost embarrassed to look at her. She looked—not vulnerable, exactly, but oddly exposed. Her hair was cut in different lengths, and the shorter pieces framed her face while the long ends curled softly around her shoulders, seeming to float as she moved. It was—the effect was very different from the careless, boyish hairstyle he remembered. He could not _begin_ to imagine why she would choose to sport such a, a sensuous style at an event as public as the ball.

“I think I actually recognize this song,” Leonie said with cheerful surprise. She smiled at him, raised her brows. “You wanna?” Lorenz looked from her face to her outstretched hand. Did he, Lorenz, want to dance with her, Leonie Pinelli, at a formal ball, thereby putting his hands on her person when her hair was down and she was wearing that dress. _~~Yes.~~_ ~~No.~~ What an interesting question. 

“Oh,” he managed. After an inelegant pause, he added, “Yes.” Leonie gave him a searching look, which he ignored.

He led her onto the dance floor. It was—Lorenz didn’t have the words for it. It hurt, it was pleasant, it was nostalgic, it was frightening. She was warm and solid and familiar and changed. He wanted to spin her and hear all about her travels. He wanted to lead her back to the refreshments and make sure she took enough food this time. He wanted to—tug her close, put his arms around her, rest his head against her. 

This was a disaster.

The dancing was well enough. The company was—welcome. The conversation was nonexistent. Every topic he could think of was trite (the weather, the Baron’s estate, the society gossip) or—not suitable. _I missed you. I thought of you. I liked the comb, the poem, the drawings, the trinkets. I think something is wrong with Lysithea. I missed you. I, I, I,_ I. Me. Everything Lorenz could think of to say felt—grasping, wrong, like he was back at the Academy pressing for attention even when he was unwelcome. It was Leonie who cut through the crowded, choking silence.

“I went to a wedding recently. In my village. One of our girls married a boy from up the valley,” she said. 

“Oh? Someone you knew?” Lorenz asked. Leonie laughed, and Lorenz—took what felt like his first proper breath in several minutes. He had not realized how much he had missed that sound.

“Town like that, it’s impossible not to know everyone,” she said. “We weren’t close, though, too much of an age difference. That was the last time I danced in public.” Ah, that was what had prompted the thought. Lorenz smiled in enlightenment. 

“Would you say the atmosphere is greatly similar?” he asked innocently. Her nose crinkled slightly when she grinned; he couldn’t recall if it had always done that. 

“I would _not,_ ” she said. “You ever been to a country wedding?” Lorenz shook his head. “Well—I guess I only know how we do it up in Sauin. But there’s a feast, and dancing, and everyone wears—”

“Skirts, that I do remember,” Lorenz interrupted. Leonie rewarded him with a smile. He admitted, “It’s hard to imagine.” He spun her, couldn’t help but notice how the motion made her hair fan out. It settled softly around her face again as she looked at him.

“It’s fun,” she said, “When everyone’s dancing, it’s like—I don’t know. It’s colorful! Plus, in the summer all the kids make flower crowns to wear.” 

“I cannot imagine you in a flower crown,” Lorenz lied. He—was imagining it. Even a day ago, he probably wouldn’t have been able to picture it, but he was picturing it now.

“I can imagine you in one,” Leonie said cheerfully, then stumbled in their dance. They recovered, but—goodness, both their faces must have been red. Silence made its unwelcome return. 

This time it was surely Lorenz’s duty to begin conversation. 

“In your travels,” he asked, “Did you have a favorite place?” 

“Oh,” Leonie said, and smiled again as she looked at him. Lorenz didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t, “Did you know Gautier has really good cheese? I know there was that one dish they used to make in the dining hall, but it wasn’t my favorite. But _in_ Gautier, Lorenz, you have to try it. The flavor is a lot milder, and the cheese melts really well, and it keeps you warm all day.”

“Sounds good,” Lorenz offered. Leonie shook her head.

“Good? Lorenz, it’s _amazing,_ if you go there, you have to try it. You will love it.”

“I’m not an enormous fan of Gautier cheese,” Lorenz admitted. He spun her again.

“This will change your mind,” she said. 

“If you say so,” he said, amused. They made it through the rest of the dance speaking of regional dishes in the places Leonie had visited. Hearing her rhapsodize about food made Lorenz reflect that some friendships were perplexing; Leonie’s friendship with Raphael was not.

When the song came to an end, Lorenz led Leonie off the dance floor. For a moment, he was cast back to their impromptu graduation, dancing the night away even as the Imperial Army bore down on them. But this was a formal ball, and there were expectations to meet, and ladies whose attentions Lorenz was expected to court. He bowed over Leonie’s hand, and they reentered the glittering world of the ballroom. 

It was socially acceptable for them to speak to people together for a while, but before long the conversational currents carried them away from each other. Lorenz minded himself that his role here was to curry favor with Marlton, whose goodwill could make trade between Goneril and Gloucester much more profitable. The Baroness was graced him with a dance before introducing him to a daughter of a friend, and so the night wore on. He kept an eye out for Hilda and Leonie but only rarely saw either. 

Another song concluded, and as Lorenz was leading his partner off the floor he caught sight of—that was Leonie, of course, and _that_ was a man’s hand upon her posterior. Good gracious. Lorenz didn’t recognize her dance partner from this angle, but he was—he was really maintaining contact. Meanwhile Leonie—Lorenz squinted—was smiling at the man. Her back was tense, her movements unnatural, but that was a smile. The man’s hand was—still where it was. As Lorenz observed, a servant girl appeared at Leonie’s side, apparently summoning her. Leonie stepped out of her partner’s grasp, but turned to say one more thing to the man, tossing her hair artfully as she did so. 

Lorenz—had no idea what to make of it. Of course Leonie was entitled to dance with whomever she liked, and she was more than capable of defending herself if needed, but—well, she was a commoner navigating the often treacherous waters of noble society. It was possible that she was intimidated by the status of the people around her. She had never seemed intimidated by _Lorenz_ , and he was heir to her territory. It was possible that whoever-that-was had intimidated her as Lorenz had not. The thought was enraging. How curious. Or—or perhaps Lorenz was simply mistaken. He’d been observing from across the room, and she _had_ been smiling, and body language could be notoriously difficult to interpret, so perhaps—it, it. It was possible. Lorenz didn’t think it was _likely_ , he knew what his friend looked like when she smiled sincerely and this was not that, but—it was possible.

Lorenz was, he discovered, moving across the hall. He had, perhaps, the vague intention of identifying the man and engaging him in amiable conversation. As he was drifting, casually, he was intercepted by one of the Baroness’s friends. Drat. It seemed he simply _had_ to dance with the Forneau heiress, Alainne. The Forneau lands bordered Gloucester, and the mountain pass her family controlled was one of only two that was large enough to admit caravans to the Neities lands. Maintaining good relations with her family was therefore rather a good idea.

In his secret heart, Lorenz found Alainne Forneau to be pretty, fashionable, and not especially enjoyable company. She was younger than him by a number of years and seemed to have zero interest in the governance of her family’s lands. She did, however, have infinite cutting observations about the dress choices and mannerisms of their fellow partygoers. Nevertheless, Lorenz knew his role. He smiled as he led her onto the dance floor and let slip some petty criticisms of his own. He noted wearily that each snide remark seemed to endear him to the girl.

Perhaps he was growing old before his time because the night was still young, but he was tired. He led Alainne Forneau in a dance, then excused himself to the refreshments. Leonie was nowhere in the room, not that he was keeping track. He was just making his idle way to one of the doors leading out of the ballroom, to the powder rooms and whatnot, when he encountered Hilda.

She was striking in what Lorenz suspected was a dress of her own design. It made use of delicate pink and bold wine red and had quite a daring neckline. It had long, trailing sleeves that billowed out as he and Hilda danced.

“Alainne is looking very pretty tonight,” Hilda said with what Lorenz suspected was a spark of mischief.

“She cannot hold a candle to you,” he said grandly. She grinned at him, and he smiled back. There was something about Hilda’s company that Lorenz found restful.

“Leonie’s here. Did you see her?” Hilda asked. And just like that, Lorenz no longer found her company restful.

“I did,” he allowed.

“What did you think of her dress?” she demanded.

“It—was fine.”

“ _And?_ ”

“I might even call it eyecatching?” Lorenz hazarded. Hilda was still looking at him intently, clearly waiting for _something_. “It was very flattering for her physique?” Lorenz guessed. This was apparently _not_ what Hilda had been fishing for, as it made her attention _sharpen_. Oh dear.

“Yes, it was designed that way,” Hilda said. “Did you see how broad her shoulders are now?”

“Did you design her dress?” he asked instead.

“Yes. Did you notice her shoulders?” Hilda demanded again. Lorenz nodded. To his unutterable relief, Hilda only nodded decisively and said, “Good. Don’t tell her this, but I really liked working on her dress. Most ballgowns are designed for, you know,” she tossed her head to indicate the usual range of body types favored by high fashion. “But Leonie’s not like that. I thought, at first, to try to de-emphasize it, but then I thought—no, better this way. Right?”

“Certainly,” Lorenz agreed. There must have been something in his face or voice, for Hilda gave him another sharp look.

However, she only said, “Right.” Hilda pressed him some more about his impressions of their friend’s appearance, which was—strange. Disquieting. Strangely disquieting. 

At last Lorenz found an opportunity to ask, “In addition to taking her wardrobe in hand, did you also offer her tutelage for this sort of event?”

“What do you mean?” Hilda asked.

“Ah, you know. Making introductions, accepting and declining invitations to dance, dealing with unwelcome attentions, general etiquette,” Lorenz said, feeling transparent. 

“She didn’t do anything over the line, did she?” Hilda asked in the manner of one dreading the response. 

“Certainly not, it only—”

“Was it food-related?” Hilda asked tiredly.

“No, it was nothing she did,” Lorenz managed. “I only—I thought, perhaps, a gentleman was bothering her, and I wanted to…” he trailed off, not sure what to say.

“Like trying to get her alone? Putting his hands on her? Speaking to her lik—oh, I see,” Hilda looked briefly grim when Lorenz nodded minutely, but quickly pasted a public smile back onto her expression. “I’ll talk to her, Lorenz, don’t worry.” Lorenz didn’t know what to say, so instead he nodded weakly. Hilda squeezed his hand, a quick, reassuring thing, and said, “Don’t worry, I’m looking after her. Promise.” Lorenz again didn’t know what to say, but he nodded again. They spun across the dance floor, each occupied with their own thoughts. 

Lorenz didn’t see Leonie after his dance with Hilda, but he didn’t see Hilda either. He caught a glimpse of her servant girl peeking into the room briefly, but that was all. Perhaps it was for the best.

The rest of the ball passed in something of an uninspiring haze. Lorenz smiled his most proper and polite smile and gently let himself fade into the facade of a proper young nobleman. The ebb and flow of the party washed him into dance and conversation with a seemingly never-ending procession of his peers. And so the evening passed, and Lorenz returned to Gloucester Hall with a headache and sore feet.

His odd mood lasted until the next roundtable meeting, to be replaced by incredulity, shock, and—dare he say it—vindication.

The Alliance voted to cut ties with Acheron.

When Gloucester had proposed dissolving Acheron months ago—when Acheron had broken faith but before the Empire was fully entrenched—nothing had come of it. The Minor Houses had been more fearful of setting an inconvenient precedent than they were concerned about the immediate threat of the Empire. Even now, Acheron was protected within the Alliance by their own customs. No Alliance lord could move troops through his land without his permission. If, for example, Gloucester had sent troops to defend against the Empire without that permission, it would have been Gloucester that faced severe repercussions. 

But this time, Goneril put forth a proposal to cut ties with Acheron. Gloucester, Riegan, Ordelia, and Edmund voted in support. Then came the casting of votes by the Minor Houses, which was a predictable litany of opposition—until Neities, of all houses, voted in favor of the measure. An uproar ensued. No Alliance house had been stripped of its power, and the same was true for cutting ties with any of the Alliance members. The secession of Galatea had been one thing, but this was a matter of the Alliance rejecting one of its own. Almost three hundred years of precedent, defied. 

Thus was Acheron officially cast out of the Alliance. From a practical standpoint, it changed little—the territory still existed, they still controlled the Alliance side of the bridge, and they were still licking the Imperial boot—but— _but_ — Acheron had been faithless and selfish, had benefitted from trade agreements and treaties of mutual aid while striving at every turn to shirk their own responsibilities, had flagrantly ignored the Roundtable’s resolution to maintain neutrality with the Empire, and they were finally facing something resembling consequences for their actions. 

Lorenz was not entirely surprised when Hilda deigned to visit Gloucester not long after. She had, quite unusually, been in attendance at the most recent ( _history-making_ ) roundtable conference, and there was a certain _attentiveness_ to her that had given Lorenz pause. Neities normally looked to Goneril, and although Lord Neities was implacable, his son had appeared in his stead. Said son was reputed to be more easily manipulated than his lord father, and Hilda was notably skilled in the arts of persuasion. All of this was conjecture, of course, but, well. The outcome spoke for itself.

Officially, Hilda was accompanying her father as he called upon Count Gloucester. She smiled brightly through the usual greetings. When the children who had been in her care, neat in their Gloucester livery, surprised them in the tearoom, she held their hands and listened intently as they told her about the transition. It wasn’t until Lorenz and Hilda were finally alone, Lorenz pouring the tea, that she stopped smiling. Her expression was so uncharacteristically serious that he set the teapot down with an ungraceful click.

“What would it take to convince your father to favor an alliance with the Kingdom?” she asked. Lorenz was glad he wasn’t holding a ceramic vessel of hot liquid. 

“Surely you mean the Dukedom of Faerghus?”

“I do not,” Hilda said calmly. Lorenz felt the hairs on the back of his neck try to stand up.

“Should you not be having this conversation with my father?” Lorenz asked. Hilda tilted her head to one side and twirled a strand of hair around her finger.

“Me? Bother Count Gloucester? I would never,” she said, blinking vapidly. Lorenz gave her an unimpressed look. She smiled but kept twirling her hair. “My father’s speaking with him. I’m speaking with you, my classmate and friend.” Lorenz sighed. It was true that his father had no particular love of Gregor Goneril and was unlikely to be forthcoming in conversation, even if that conversation was about what enticements for Gloucester.

“If the Alliance were to shift away from neutrality in favor of Faerghus, Gloucester would bear the brunt of the Empire’s displeasure,” he said flatly.

“Troops?”

“Money,” Lorenz said, “Possibly troops as well; it would depend on the situation. Favorable trade deals and various tax exemptions, of course. Possibly an increase in our house’s votes at the roundtable.”

“That one would be difficult,” Hilda demurred, “The minor houses are very protective of their powers.”

“As if you couldn’t persuade them,” Lorenz said, watching her closely. She shrugged one shoulder, cool and unbothered.

“This is different; changes in the distribution of votes can reasonably be expected to affect the roundtable for generations.”

“Stripping a house of its legitimacy doesn’t?” 

“Not in the same way,” Hilda said. “Acheron’s votes were distributed among the other minor houses, you know.”

“Well,” Lorenz said, not quite conceding but not pushing the point any more, “As for Acheron—”

“Acheron’s not part of the Alliance anymore; Goneril, at least, has little concern if Gloucester wants to claim foreign territory,” Hilda said. Her tone, her demeanor, everything was exquisitely cool. She was no warmer when she added, “As long as Gloucester can take and keep it.” Lorenz was reminded that, until recently, Goneril had been the most active border in the Alliance. Even in school, Hilda’s girlish affectations had never entirely obfuscated the martial prowess Goneril instilled in all its children.

“That would not be a problem,” Lorenz said. As he was about to delve deeper into the nature of favorable trade agreements, something occurred to him. That—it was nothing, really, except that it would likely appeal to his father. But it wasn’t as obvious as trade rights, tax exemptions, claiming the Myrddin, and thus he hesitated to bring it up—

“Yes?” Hilda coaxed.

The Gonerils left after a short time, the former Duke looking slightly less cheerful than usual and Hilda sparkling as always, and life at Gloucester continued unchanged.

Well, largely unchanged. Lorenz maintained his routines—breakfast with mother, attending his father at roundtable conferences, corresponding with his friends—but Hilda had whispered one last thing to him before they rejoined their fathers. Lorenz caught himself, at times, staring warily at the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. You _must_ behold this [amazing piece of art](https://twitter.com/oneletterdiff/status/1326628174768168961), by the amazing [oneletterdiff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneletterdiff/pseuds/oneletterdiff)  
> 2\. A recommendation, also by oneletterdiff: [Shining in No Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27731428). _When Lorenz first began to notice Leonie, he did his best to squash the budding interest. She was an alpha, strike one; she was a commoner, strike two; worst of all, she would try to give him orders, strike three. If he hadn’t been so well-trained to always be polite in the face of adversary, Lorenz would have taken her bossiness as a challenge. Lesser alphas might start a fight over the matter. But Lorenz prided himself on his impeccable manners. / Still, Leonie had managed to get under his skin. It irked Lorenz to no end. Sometimes it made him so angry that he would lie awake at night thinking about her._ ABO! Leonie and Lorenz! Alpha/Alpha! And there is more art!  
> 3\. Much less impressive, you can look at the [map](https://twitter.com/readythefanons/status/1335425723016724489/photo/1) I made ages ago  
> \--  
> Next chapter: Goneril peaches and midnight messages


	12. Myrddin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Somehow, impossibly, against all logic, reason, and natural law, Byleth Eisner lived. Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, too, had escaped death._

Hilda visited him so often his mother started to give him appraising looks. His father made a jest about ‘Goneril peaches.’

So that happened. 

However, contrary to Lorenz’s parents’ beliefs, Hilda was not visiting for courtship, or to discuss marriage prospects, or for any sort of prurient reason. No, Hilda was visiting time and again because she wanted—she was attempting—she believed that Lorenz could be incited into acting against his own parents, against his family, against their people’s interests. She was _mistaken,_ and sorely so.

“This interesting thing is, Lorenz, that you say that like those are always going to align. What will you do when what Gloucester needs is different from what the Count wants?” Ordinarily, Hilda’s girlish affectations didn’t bother Lorenz, but just now she was eerie. They were in his tearoom, Hilda the very picture of a frivolous and fashionable noble girl. She was sitting with her chin artfully perched atop the curled fingers of one delicate hand. The fingers of her other hand toyed with a lock of her hair. 

“Stop it,” Lorenz said. He was oddly riveted by the sight Hilda’s finger slowly twisting, twisting, twisting the pink strands.

“What will you do, Lorenz, when what is _right_ is different from what your father commands?” Here she tilted her head just slightly and blinked long lashes at him. She spoke like she was a vapid thing, a caricature of a nobleman’s daughter, rather than—whatever she was. 

“I said stop,” Lorenz repeated. Unease was rising within him, a terrible wave that overspilled the pit he confined it to ordinarily. It washed over him. His hands were icy, his chest heavy, and his magic was too hot as it darted through his veins in search of a route out of him. Horror, dread, _something_ was wrapping oily fingers around him, leaving little smears of darkness everywhere it touched. Lorenz was frozen—until Hilda laid her hand over his. The girlish facade was gone, and it was just Hilda looking at him now. Her hands were unfashionably calloused and her face serious and still. 

“You have time to figure it out, but not as much as you would wish. Choose well.”

And then she disappeared out the door in a swirl of skirts. He heard her giggle something about _freshening up_ before Lorenz took her to see the rose gardens. Lorenz had but a moment to shake himself before a servant entered to clear away the tea setting. 

He didn’t see her for more than a month after that. He didn’t hear from Leonie either.

Then, after weeks of nothing where there had been—something, a letter came.

_Dear Lorenz,_  
_Got busy there. Sorry I didn’t write. For now, please send mail to me at Sauin Village._  
_You’ll never believe the fish I caught the other day! It was almost dusk, and..._

Lorenz was relieved but confused. He didn’t think she was _in_ Sauin; she usually just said when she was, and her letters when she visited home were always filled with descriptions of her family. Under ordinary circumstances, Leonie left out such petty details as to her location out of disinterest, but he had the oddest feeling with this letter that she was deliberately avoiding any reference to her location. The impression that Leonie was being deliberately vague as to her whereabouts grew with each new letter. It was mystifying.

The Alliance leader’s righthand woman came to visit.

Lysithea had been—not tireless, exactly, and not restless, but, oh—unyieldingly driven for as long as Lorenz had known her. She burned with an unforgiving flame. (Lorenz, for as long as Lysithea had known him, had been chasing after Claude, had been monitoring him and questioning him and later, just watching him while still asking questions. As long as Lorenz had known Leonie, she’d been chasing her ambition to become the best mercenary, the second Blade Breaker. But there had been a Leonie before Jeralt and a Lorenz before Claude, which begged the question of whether there had been a Lysithea before the flame.) She did stoop, from time to time, to indulge in a sweet treat or tarry with her friends, but one had the feeling she was always hearing sand run through an hourglass. She advised Claude, attended meetings in her own right or in his stead, and wrote prolifically, but she rarely dallied.

Yet Lysithea, in a charming purple and black ensemble, saw fit to visit Gloucester Hall under the guise of paying a social call to her old classmate. She even brought a straw basket, covered by a cheerfully embroidered cloth, from which wafted a mouthwatering smell.

“Gloucester may grow the figs, but only Ordelia’s cooks have mastered their use,” she said, setting the basket on Lorenz’s tea table. Lorenz smiled as he watched her draw back the cloth to reveal a beautifully made tart.

“Whose creation is this?” Lorenz asked as she carefully lifted it from the basket.

“One of the castle chefs,” Lysithea answered. Her expression was motionless as she added, “It’s not as sweet as my mother’s, but she seldom bakes these days. Chef Sabine is a master of her craft, however.”

They talked of flavors for a short time, but it wasn’t long before Lysithea laid her fork down and gave Lorenz a piercing look.

“The situation in Faerghus is changing rapidly, and we expect it to change further still.” 

“This sounds like the sort of intelligence that should be shared with the duly appointed representatives of the noble houses,” Lorenz said, as if he was not hungry for information the likes of which one could use to alter history. Lysithea only smiled—a humorless upward flick of one corner of her mouth—and shook her head minutely.

“The situation is extremely delicate, and I have information to share with you—but only if you swear to keep it confidential. You can’t tell _anyone,_ Lorenz,” Lysithea said. Lorenz hesitated. “No one, including your father. 

“What information could be so dire that it must be a secret even from the roundtable?” Lorenz asked instead of asking, _Why me, and why not my father?_

“That’s exactly the sort of question I need _your_ answer for,” she said dryly. Lorenz continued to hesitate. He—wanted to know, and surely it was better for Gloucester that _someone_ of the family knew rather than no one, but—his family, his father. He knew that some secrets needed to be kept, even from one’s own family, but—even necessary secrets could poison a relationship, and Lorenz— 

Lorenz adored his father and mother. He loved them, and he revered them, and he did his best to honor them. However, his duty to Gloucester and to the Alliance superseded even the obligations of filial piety. In fact, to live up to the ideals his own parents had instilled in him, in order to honor their teachings, he had to put Gloucester and the Alliance above them. Or—or so he believed. He—

It was easy to acknowledge that, as much as Lorenz loved the Alliance, it had its flaws. Its history was an endless source of fascination, and the interlocking systems of its governance never failed to enthrall, but it was far from perfect. The Great and Minor Houses often worked at cross-purposes, and inefficiencies abounded. Although there was an informal body of law that was mostly consistent across the Alliance, navigating inter-territorial legal distinctions was a headache. The ways—not even way, but ways—in which goods were taxed, tariffs applied, and the movement of materials was—or wasn’t—regulated was enough to make a man grind his teeth. And yet, Lorenz could not imagine dedicating his life to anything less. What the Alliance _was_ was not what it could be, and what it could be was everything. Leading the Alliance, in whole or in part, was the work of a lifetime, of several lifetimes, of whole families whose stewardship extended even before the Alliance proper had been founded.

It was easy to admit that Lorenz loved the Alliance and knew it was far from perfect. It was easy to admit that Lorenz loved his parents. It was much harder to admit that—his parents were only human, and—his parents had their own human shortcomings and foibles. It was hard to reconcile that although logically it was right that Lorenz accept Lyisthea’s offer of information, there was a high probability that his father would be displeased if he found out.

“Lorenz?” Lysithea prompted quietly.

“It is… is it important?” Lorenz asked, feeling rudderless. The question he wanted to ask—is it worth it, or will it be worth it—escaped him.

Impatience flitted across Lysithea’s face, but she only said, “Yes. Very.” And she waited. Her unblinking attention put him in mind of a bird of prey. Lorenz—knew what he was going to say, and Lysithea knew what he was going to say, but somehow he still, irrationally, resented the situation he was in. But that—it wasn’t important, it didn’t matter.

“Please tell me,” he said.

Somehow, impossibly, against all logic, reason, and natural law, Byleth Eisner lived. Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, too, had escaped death.

As if that were not enough, the miraculous pair were leading a small but growing force composed of Kingdom loyalists and the Knights of Seiros.

What was more, the Alliance Leader was monitoring their progress with interest. If they continued to be victorious, Lysithea reported, he intended to have the Alliance declare in favor of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus and join forces with them to push back the Adrestian Empire.

It shouldn’t have been a shock. Lorenz had paid attention at every roundtable conference he had attended, had listened to the pauses and implications as well as the words spoken. He had, at this very tea table, spoken to Hilda about which incentives were likely to be effective in securing Gloucester’s support for Faerghus. But there was a difference in discussing which hypothetical benefits would appeal to his father and learning from Lysithea that the Kingdom army was being led by not one but two commanders who had seemingly returned from the dead. And it was different to have a timetable, however rough.

“Dimitri is not sane,” Lysithea said flatly. “Whatever you’re picturing, it’s worse. But is also quite able to plan attacks, and with his generals at his side he leads a very… efficient army. He intends to march for Enbarr as soon as possible, likely by the end of the month.”

“Isn’t Fhirdiad still under Imperial—”

“Yes,” Lysithea sighed. “It has been pointed out, more than once. He is implacable, and his generals… They will march, and they will cut through Gloucester to do so.”

“They can’t,” Lorenz said. Lysithea shook her head. “They _can’t_ ,” Lorenz repeated, not because this would somehow make it true but because—they couldn’t. It was unacceptable.

“We are plotting a route that will take us away from known areas of habitation,” Lysithea said, as if it were that simple, as if she understood the natural and human geography involved. “It’s your soldiers I’m worried about, not your citizens.”

“Our soldiers are drawn from our citizenry,” Lorenz said. They deserved better than to be needlessly endangered by a foreign army led by a madman.

“We’re working on a plan,” Lysithea said with the air of someone who has apparently decided to ignore her companion for now. “But it hinges on _you_ leading Gloucester’s forces on the day we march.”

“I cannot abandon my—”

“Let me tell you the plan first,” Lysithea interrupted. Ah. Well. Okay, that made sense. Lorenz nodded. Lysithea spoke.

It seemed his father’s fears were going to come true at the same time he was to be offered some of his dearest wishes. That was to say, if things went according to plan, the Alliance would declare in favor of the Kingdom and provoke the Empire’s wrath, and Gloucester would bear the brunt of it. However, at almost the same time, there would be aid from across the Alliance and a generous package of favorable trade deals and so on to act as an enticement, and—

“The other Great Houses and Daphnel said yes. We’re still making discreet inquiries with the Minor Houses, but we expect that enough will agree for it to pass,” Lysithea said. “Tentative congratulations, or something.” 

“Thank you,” Lorenz said weakly. He—he was probably blushing, curse it. It was a minor thing, really, but it would mean something to his father and mother. It didn’t change the fact that he was betraying his family’s trust, even if it was for the sake of his family and their lands, but—bah. Such petty trivialities had no place here, he told himself, and the words were flimsy and hollow even in the privacy of his own mind. Drat.

“But back to the logistics?” Lysithea prompted, and Lorenz nodded and listened intently.

Hilda bore the final message. She appeared _in_ Lorenz’s chambers, in a flash of light. Saints preserve him, was that how they were doing things these days? 

Night had long since fallen, and Lorenz was brushing his hair while thinking about the coming day. At the appearance of a bright, unexpected light in his bedchamber, Lorenz leapt to his feet, one hand extended to defend himself.

“Shh! Shh. Don’t make a sound. Listen,” she hurried to say. She was dressed for—well, he didn’t know what she was dressed for, exactly, but it certainly seemed to be something that called for freedom of movement if that hemline and those boots were any indication. 

“What are you _doing_ here? How did you get in?” Lorenz demanded in a harsh whisper, now clutching his hairbrush (which he may or may not have scorched just now) in both hands. Good gracious, he was in his _nightclothes._

“Tomorrow,” Hilda said, “Tomorrow, at the northern border, there will be a strange military force. _You_ need to be the general your father sends.”

“Tomorrow?” Lorenz asked weakly. “Who—”

“It doesn’t matter. Your father will send you?” Lorenz nodded. “You’re certain?” she asked sharply, and—it was a marvel to Lorenz how he could see the progression of his classmates each time he spoke to them. The years had made more of an officer out of Hilda than she’d probably ever imagined. He spared no time to wonder whether the intervening years had transformed him; such matters were unbecomingly petty. 

“I’m certain,” Lorenz said instead.

“And your men will listen to your commands, conventional or not?” 

“They will,” Lorenz said. He had graduated from the Officer’s Academy, and he hadn’t spent the last five years idle. For a force of the general description he’d been provided, his father would send the Gloucester cavalry, which was well known to him. Hilda relaxed, and the girl she used to be peeked out behind the battle-ready warrior. 

“Well,” she said, “If it all goes well, it’ll be a walk in the park, more or less.” 

“Hilda,” he sighed. She flipped her hair in a terribly familiar way.

“I have to go,” she said. In a voice as unyielding as the mountains she hailed from, she reminded him, “Keep your men in line, for the sake of their lives.” In a much chirpier voice, she added, “I’ll tell everyone you said hi!” Before Lorenz could respond, she disappeared in another pillar of light. 

_Well._ Lorenz was going to need a good night’s sleep, and had no chance of actually having one. Wonderful. 

Word came the next day of mysterious forces bearing no emblem but amassing in formidable numbers near the northern border of Gloucester. Lorenz was granted the weighty honor of leading Gloucester’s military response. He made it a point to emphasize to his men that they would attack on _his_ order and his order alone. 

“Any among you who so much as spits in the direction of the enemy without my signal will be tried for insubordination, and I will be seeking the strictest punishment. Am I understood?” It didn’t make him popular, but that wasn’t his goal.

They massed in view of their mysterious enemy—and waited. And waited. 

Gloucester didn’t strike the first blow. Their mysterious enemy didn’t either. They… honestly, after a little marching around to find the best position, it turned into something of a picnic. Gloucester soldiers were, naturally, among the finest in the Alliance, but it was inevitable that—without any sign of imminent action—the soldiers’ minds drifted to refreshment. Well. And who could blame them, really, it was such a beautiful day.

Lorenz was enjoying a cup of tea brewed by one of the men when a runner appeared. There was, according to the boy, an unarmed messenger to see him.

“Tiny thing, too, with white hair and pink eyes. Talks real posh.”

It was Lysithea, obviously. 

“A force from the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, assisted by Alliance generals and led by Dimitri Blaiddyd, rightful heir to the Faerghan throne, and Enlightened One Byleth Eisner, favored by Archbishop Rhea herself, has wrested the Great Bridge of Myrrdin from the Adrestian Empire. As we speak, the territory that was once Acheron is being offered to Gloucester, and care of the bridge as well,” she said in a serious, carrying voice. Lysithea, as Leonie might have put it, had some good pipes on her. “Lorenz,” she added, still deliberately loud enough to be overheard. “Your father needs you.” In a much, much quieter tone, her mouth barely moving, she added dryly, “I told Claude that I’m not a messenger, but here I am. Oh, and Leonie says ‘hi.’” 

Of course it wasn’t as simple as just leaving. Their mysterious enemy mysteriously withdrew shortly after Lysithea’s arrival, but the border still needed watching. Lorenz and his officers split off a number of men from the main force to accompany Lorenz as he rode hard back to Gloucester Hall.

A number of Alliance notables (Alliance Leader Claude von Riegan, Hilda Goneril, and Marianne Edmund) accompanied by representatives from the Kingdom (Annette Dominic and Ingrid Galatea) had come and gone. Not only had the Great Bridge of Myrddin been reclaimed for the Alliance, and not only were its associated lands to be joined with Gloucester, but the delegation had also borne an extremely favorable set of trade agreements. And, of course—

“Lorenz,” his father said, “It seems that I am now a Duke. Congratulate me.” Ah, so that part of the deal had gone through.

His father’s anger was well controlled but present nonetheless. The deal offered by Claude’s faction was a good one, its benefits generous, but Lorenz had never met a person who enjoyed being backed into a corner. His father had, of course, accepted the deal, but that did little to soothe his temper. Lorenz, therefore, was guiltily glad that he was being dispatched to lead a battalion of Gloucester’s cavalry to do their part to push back against Adrestian aggression.

And, as Lorenz was headed for the front and newly-minted Duke Gloucester would be remaining in the comparative safety of their territories, Lorenz was entrusted with the Relic of House Gloucester. It was a weighty honor despite the small physical size of Thyrsus. 

“… sign here, and initial here and here, final signature here, and the date,” his mother concluded. He father, watching the proceedings, nodded solemnly. With the addition of his father’s bold, slashing signature—preceded by _Duke_ for the first time—the document was complete. Thyrsus was now his. As he laid his hand upon it, he was again aware of its aura of menace, as though the thing itself had a bitter spirit hungry to inflict suffering. With his touch, he silently promised it that he would wield it thoughtfully and with deliberation.

Thus it was that Lorenz led his men south to the Bridge of Myrddin. Clouds covered the sky to the east and north. Despite the apparent threat of rain, the wind that blew was cool and dry. Fleeting patches of blue sky peeked out here and there, and Lorenz and his men rode in the comfortable knowledge that the weather would, for today at least, continue to hold. 

He had thought to catch up with his friends and their allies after crossing into the Empire, but of course they had left a garrison to man the bridge until Gloucester arrived. He was delighted that, waiting with them, was none other than—

“Leonie!” he called. She was looking out at the water below, and she turned at his voice. She was standing on the wall of the bridge, lance slung over her shoulder, and she grinned brightly when she caught sight of him. A strong wind blew off the water and caught her tied-back hair. She had a scar over one eye she hadn’t had before. She jumped off the wall and strode across the space between them as he dismounted. 

“Lorenz! I was hoping you would show up,” she greeted. When he was on his feet, she slapped his shoulder with friendly enthusiasm. “You’re with us now?”

“I certainly am,” Lorenz said. She smiled at him, and he couldn’t help smiling back.

“I’m glad. I volunteered to stick around because I thought you’d be coming soon.” Lorenz didn’t have time to respond to that before she was striding away, calling out to some of the soldiers left behind. He was struck by the casual grace with which she moved and her easy confidence as she addressed some of the garrison officers. They nodded as she spoke, and then one of them shared a forearm-to-forearm clasp with her. With a final word, she was off and approaching Lorenz once more. Lorenz indicated to the cavalry officers that they were to work with Leonie and the remaining Kingdom and Alliance officers. Leonie handled the redistribution of forces at the bridge with a brisk efficiency that required little more of Lorenz than nod his acquiescence every so often. It occurred to him that this was Leonie as she was meant to be: confident, respected, and ready for action. She was clearly in her element, comfortable in light armor and wool. It made him feel strange, but pleasantly so. 

It wasn’t long before they were leaving the Bridge of Myrddin behind. Their officers would follow once all the logistics and formalities had been settled, but for now it was just Lorenz and Leonie setting out under the waiting clouds.

Their men didn’t catch up with them until the next morning, and it wasn’t for a few hours after that that they met back up with the Kingdom army. Thus, they camped alone that night. As they made camp, Lorenz couldn’t stop sneaking looks at his friend. This was only the second time they’d seen each other since the academy, and… Marlton’s ball had felt like a different world. Leonie had been transformed not only in appearance, but in manner and context, and—it had been so wholly unexpected as to be unsettling. She’d been—she was—Lorenz had. He.

It was possible that any person, even a nobleman with highly refined tastes, would have observed the woman he’d met that night and found her to be… aesthetically pleasing. She’d been well-groomed and well-dressed. Her hair, Lorenz remembered (involuntarily, not for the first time) had gleamed in the candlelight. She’d always moved with a casual athleticism, but someone, likely Hilda, had seen fit to tutor her in the nuances of gesture and movement that marked a woman of gentle breeding. The effect had been not of a commoner in expensive clothing, but of a lady: an unusual one, but a lady nonetheless.

And therein was the crux of the problem. The Leonie he’d met at the ball had been so different from the one he’d known in school that to—to think of her almost felt like a betrayal of the girl he’d known. It had taken considerable pains to teach Lorenz that he could be friends with commoners. To be—perhaps—even hypothetically taken by the illusion of a noble Leonie gave him an uncomfortable feeling. Yet she had been terribly lovely.

Now, though, Lorenz still found himself peering at his friend out of the corner of his eye as they did the terribly mundane work of establishing a site to camp without a fire. This Leonie was much more familiar to him—industrious, focused on the task ahead, but still concerned with her companion’s comfort. But, he thought as his eyes lingered again over the scar on her brow, she was not entirely familiar.

“Here,” she said, and dropped a heavy fur of some sort over his shoulders. The fur was a creamy white. He ran a hand over it and found it to be glossy and luxuriously soft. She stood back and looked at him with satisfaction. “Gonna get cold when the sun goes down.” 

“Are you certain?” Lorenz asked, still petting it. Leonie smiled and raised her brows at him. The new scar moved the motion. She was so—she was so much a seasoned warrior, in dress and manner, that the smile should have looked out of place. Instead it was the most natural expression in the world on her. 

“Of course,” she said. She stepped forward and ran a hand over the fur covering his shoulders. “That’s Faerghan lion, you know. They get huge.” 

“Faerghan lion? Did you hunt it?” Lorenz asked. The fur was so thick, he could barely feel Leonie’s hand through it. She shook her head, still smiling.

“Nah, this, I bought.” 

“Won’t you be cold?” Lorenz asked. It was a _big_ fur, but it wasn’t large enough for both of them, and one of them needed to be on watch—

“Not with this,” Leonie said, and produced another, smaller fur that was mottled brown. Oh. Lorenz felt foolish.

“Will that be warm enough?” he asked. She held it out for his inspection. It not as thick as the one Lorenz was wearing, and not as soft, but it did seem adequately warm. She wrapped it comfortably around herself.

“I’ll be fine.” 

They dined on cold rations—her expression upon seeing the food he’d brought was nothing short of adoration—and sat near each other as the night drew on. He found himself gazing at her again. She was at once familiar and changed, and he found ~~he liked~~ — He observed that the changes of the intervening years had been, if not gentle, then not overly harsh. She was more tanned, more muscled, and (somehow) seemed even more comfortable in her skin. Scar littered her hands, her forearms, and of course there was the one on her face. He wondered again if he had changed at all, for sometimes he felt that he had been creeping forward while his classmates had been sprinting for the future. 

“Are you sure you don’t need—” Lorenz began to ask again, drawing his borrowed fur around himself. 

“It’s fine,” Leonie interrupted him carelessly. There was a time when being interrupted by a commoner would have affronted him. Now, he found he didn’t mind. “I really don’t need more than this for Lone Moon.” 

“These are from your time in Faerghus?” he asked. He stroked the fur and tried to picture her in that cold and hostile land. 

“These saved my life in Faerghus, more than once,” she said fondly, and laughed. Lorenz didn’t know how seriously she meant it, but—he buried his fingers more deeply in the fur.

“Ah,” he said, and then—“Did you get…” he let one hand hover near his own brow, “in Faerghus as well?” Oh, oh drat, he hadn’t meant to ask that, it had simply slipped out—

“Oh,” her own hand went to her brow, to the new scar there. “This. No, that was more recent. Byleth gave it to me.” 

“ _Professor Eisner?_ ” he demanded, “What could have possessed her?”

“Oh, we were practicing,” Leonie said as if it were of little import. She was still speaking as Lorenz reached out.

“May I?” he asked, his hand hovering perilously close to her face. Leonie’s eyes had snapped to him as soon as he’d started to move (why had he moved?) and were fixed on his hand. She didn’t look wary, but she looked… he didn’t know. Surprised. She nodded.

Lorenz almost held his breath as he gently pushed her bangs out of the way. His fingertips brushed against her skin, and he _did_ hold his breath as he brought his other hand up to cup the side of her face. Her skin was warm. His fingers shook minutely as he smoothed them over the scar. “It’s very close to your eye. She could have done irreparable damage,” he said sternly. Leonie’s vision was vital to her ambitions. What had Professor Eisner been _thinking?_

“It’s Byleth. If she wanted to take my eye out, she would have,” Leonie said with a careless confidence that made Lorenz want to—to scold her, for not taking more care. Instead, he ran his fingers over the healed line.

“She never should have risked it,” he said. He moved closer—to inspect it more closely, of course. Still cupping her face in his hands, he stroked her temple again. Her eyelids fluttered but she didn’t otherwise move. Surprising, maybe, that a person whose occupation hinged upon violence could still be so trusting as to let another person so close. Then again, her approach to physical contact had never been what Lorenz expected. He said, “At least it healed cleanly, but it shouldn’t have been allowed to scar at all. Where was the healer?”

“I wasn’t going to bother anyone for a little scratch,” she said, and her voice was softer than he’d ever heard it, spoken just for the two of them. He brushed her hair back again, not because it was in the way, just—because. Oh, dear. 

“You—probably thought the scar would make you look more like Jeralt,” Lorenz said, and Leonie laughed.

“You know, it actually never occurred to me. But thanks, Lorenz, I like it more now,” she teased. Her eyes were open again, looking at him. Her smile was—Lorenz took his hands back, buried his fingers in the thick fur she’d draped over him. 

“You are impossible,” he managed. The fur was soft and warm, but it was not as pleasant—ahem. Leonie tilted her head to the sky, smiled at the heavens. Lorenz—looked at her, and he was grateful that night had fallen. His cheeks were terribly warm. 

“Not impossible, just outside your reckoning,” she said. Well—perhaps, perhaps not. The clouds of the day had dispersed, and the waxing crescent moon shone serenely down on them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Lorenz!  
> \- I retconned my own chapter (the dance practice one) to let Lorenz's dad make the "Goneril peaches" joke  
> \- I thought about what kind of fur Leonie produced and went back and forth with some real world animals and just couldn't so. If you're worrying about it, please be assured that Faerghan lions are nowhere near endangered, and because it's Faerghus (i.e., low population density) almost all of their natural habitat is still intact. You should be imagining something like a lion and a polar bear hybrid, and they enjoy eating deer, elk, and seals nom nom nom. Their fur is incredibly luxurious and Leonie and Lorenz are both blissfully unaware of the fact that being allowed to buy one of their furs is actually A Big Deal especially since she's a soft southerner  
> \--  
> Next chapter: Lorenz talks about tea


	13. interlude at Garreg Mach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their troops caught up with them early the next morning, and they all rode together to rendezvous with the Faerghan army en route to Enbarr. Before they caught up with the army, however, Faerghan scouts met them as they pressed deeper into the Empire.

Their troops caught up with them early the next morning, and they all rode together to rendezvous with the Faerghan army en route to Enbarr. Before they caught up with the army, however, Faerghan scouts met them as they pressed deeper into the Empire.

“Might as well just rest for now,” one of the scouts said after they established that violence would not be necessary. “Army’s on its way back.”

“What happened?” Leonie asked.

“Crazy chit of a girl tried to kill the prince,” the scout said. “Duke Fraldarius stopped her and the Enlightened One killed her, but the Duke’s hurt bad. The ladies are flying him back to the monastery, and we’re all following on foot.

They took the scout’s advice and waited. Lorenz sneaked a glance at his friend, who seemed more restless than usual.

“How does a man almost die with Marianne, Mercedes, and the White Magic Corps onsite?” Leonie asked when she caught him looking. She crossed her arms and scowled. “I don’t like it.”

“Healing magic has its limitations, as do all things,” Lorenz pointed out. She probably wasn’t interested in a technical answer right now, based on the way she was bouncing her foot.

“Yeah, I know that,” she grumbled. Ah, she would. He thought of her as a ghost, mourning Jeralt. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” she added in a stubborn voice. He smiled a little, stupid and fond. Leonie paced a little and volunteered, “The Duke’s a nice guy. If he didn’t die right away though…?”

“Then the healers will probably be able to keep him alive,” Lorenz agreed. 

“Ugh,” Leonie proclaimed. She paced some more. “It’s blood, right? If they bleed too much too fast, there’s no bringing them back.” 

“Often,” Lorenz allowed. Too much damage to the head, neck, or heart would do it too. She paced some more, then came to sit next to Lorenz. 

“...I’m surprised the whole army’s coming back,” she muttered without looking at him. “Dimitri…” She trailed off. Lorenz snuck a look at her. Under the healthy tan, under the robustness that generally radiated off of her, she looked worn. “I’m surprised he turned around, is all. Unless he decided to continue on his own, but I think the scout would’ve said.” 

“It’s very likely he would have mentioned such a thing,” Lorenz agreed. He looked again at her, felt the urge to… put a hand on her shoulder, perhaps. Something, he didn’t know what or why. Instead he said, “Would you like some tea?”

“We’re in enemy territory waiting for our allies to find us after an attempt on the prince’s life, and you’re making tea?” she asked. Before Lorenz could feel foolish, she smiled helplessly and shook her head. “Sounds good, thanks.” 

A little-known fact about Gloucester was that—in addition to producing some of the finest teas and most elegant tea sets—the ~~county~~ _duchy_ was also at the forefront when it came to producing equipment for tea preparation on the road. Practicality, beauty, and propriety: the essence of Gloucester.

At any rate, Lorenz was hardly alone in taking the opportunity to prepare refreshment. The scents of the different teas being brewed soon wafted over the impromptu camp. Leonie was at rest, for once, as she sat and watched Lorenz produce his own travel set-up. When the tea had been brewed to perfection, he poured each of them a cup. A shame he couldn’t serve it with a suitable biscuit, but these were trying times. He watched attentively as Leonie brought the cup to his lips.

Perhaps too attentively. She paused with the cup just before her and raised her eyebrow at him. Her scar moved when she did that. She smiled crookedly. 

“Are you just going to watch me drink this tea?” she asked. Lorenz nodded, feeling his face heat slightly—it was from his own steaming cup of tea, of course, nothing more.

“I must gauge your reaction,” he told her as solemnly as he could manage. She grinned so hard that her nose crinkled, but she said nothing else. She merely sipped her tea. He watched the flickers of expression on her face—consideration, surprise, enjoyment, and then deliberate neutrality.

“… It’s okay,” she said coolly, and he couldn’t resist the urge to pssh at her. 

“ _Okay,_ that tea is classic blend. It has a bold, full flavor that is both malty and spicy, and it boasts a citrus astringency that lingers into a clean finish with an enlivening mouthfeel. It is excellent plain, or sweetener and cream can be added for a truly decadent cup. It pairs delightfully with sweet or savory treats, and multiple steepings change but do not ruin the flavor. It is a robust brew suitable for any palette, offering a bracing wake-up for the industrious soul. ‘It’s okay,’” he scoffed. Throughout this, Leonie only smiled more and more widely at him. Well, good. If Lorenz was going to make a fool of himself over tea, his audience might as well enjoy it.

“I ever tell you I had a tea made from, like, caterpillars?” she said.

“You have had butterfly tea? No,” Lorenz gasped. The tea was made by collecting the droppings of caterpillars that had fed on specific plants. It was difficult to obtain and wildly expensive as a result. He himself had only sampled it once.

“Yeah, so you know up in the north, Jorldent, I had a job up there and the lord wanted to impress everyone, so we all got a cup,” she said. Lorenz gaped at her. She grinned, making her nose crinkle again. “Wasted on me, I know,” she said. “Thought of you when I had it.”

“You are absurd,” Lorenz said. “What did you think?” Listening to her unique perspective on tea in the Alliance and Faerghus made the time pass enjoyably, but too quickly. Before Lorenz knew it, their scouts reported the approach of the Faerghan army, and it was time to ready themselves once more.

The army caught up with them. It was—strange. In theory it was nice to see everyone again, but—well, Marianne and Hilda had gone on ahead, and he’d seen Lysithea yesterday, and, well—Claude was there. He hadn’t seen Claude in some time, not since before Lysithea had visited Gloucester bearing secrets if only Lorenz would listen, and, all in all, Lorenz could barely bring himself to look at either of them. (For the best, perhaps, since—since they were busy, part of the huddle at the heart of camp with the Faerghus generals.) It was nice to see Raphael and Ignatz, though. He hadn’t seen them since their school days. Raphael was truly enormous, having somehow contrived to pile still more muscle on his powerful frame, and Ignatz had a calm confidence that made Lorenz smile. And, frankly, it was absurdly charming to see Raphael pick Leonie up into the air to greet her despite their having seen each other the day before. Lorenz glanced to the side and saw Ignatz wearing a foolish smile that likely matched his own.

“You look well,” Lorenz offered when Ignatz caught his eye. Ignatz only smiled more widely.

“Thanks, you too,” he said. Before the other man could add anything else, they were interrupted. 

“Ignatz, are you just going to let him manhandle me like this?” Leonie demanded from two feet off the ground. Ignatz grinned and towed Lorenz by the arm to their companions.

“You look like you have things under control,” he said in a mild voice. While Leonie and Raphael were laughing, he tugged Lorenz closer still. When they were alongsides, Ignatz put his arms around the two of them. Lorenz hesitated. He was in armor…? 

“There is no dignity here, join us,” Leonie said from the air, and flapped a hand at him. Well, ah… Feeling out of his element, he drew closer and gingerly put his hand on Raphael’s upper arm. When this failed to elicit any sort of disaster, he reached out and placed his other arm on Ignatz’s back. Okay, and now he…? A hand landed on his head, lightly ruffling his hair. It was Leonie. Of course. 

“Good stuff,” she said, and Lorenz wanted to say something but didn’t know what. Apologize, perhaps, for his armor.

“We look weird,” Ignatz mumbled, which was probably true, but he made no move to dislodge himself from the, the odd huddle they were making, and—

“Good,” Leonie said, at the same time Raphael said, “What? Hugging? Don’t be silly, people hug all the time.” 

“Not in the _army,_ and not in the middle of camp,” Ignatz replied. 

“ _Yeah,_ Ignatz, hugging is normal,” Leonie said, and no, it wasn’t, especially not four unrelated adults in broad daylight but—

“It should be normal,” Raphael agreed, and Lorenz was just trying to decide what, if anything, he should be doing about the hand that was still on his head, when—

“I’m done; let me down,” Leonie said, and Ignatz and Lorenz drew back while Raphael set their friend back on the ground. Well that happened.

Flouting of social norms aside, Leonie looked happy, and Raphael and Ignatz looked happy, and Lorenz felt—very strange, but pleasantly so, so—well. No harm done, he supposed. Raphael and Ignatz led them to the approximate center of camp where their commanders waited.

They recrossed the Bridge of Myrddin and arrived back at the monastery in good time. The Kingdom commanders immediately headed for the infirmary, and Lorenz was surprised to see that Leonie followed them. Lorenz thought to follow but caught sight of his own leader before he could do so. 

“Everyone gets their old rooms,” Claude said as Lorenz approached. Claude looked. Well. Claude looked a little strained around the eyes, a little tired, but he still looked good. Seeing him here brought the changes of the intervening years into sharp relief: more muscled, broader of shoulder, hair slightly more tamed, and of course the beard. Lorenz couldn’t remember, now, when Claude had done away with his little braid, but ~~he missed it~~ it was long gone.

“Thank you,” Lorenz said. That wasn’t what he was going to ask, but it was still useful information. “If I may…”

“Next war council meeting’s in an hour, upstairs conference room,” Claude said. He smiled cheekily. “Was that it?”

“No, but thank you,” Lorenz said again. Against the bleak backdrop of the much-abused monastery, Claude’s eyes were still terribly green. Lorenz dared to step closer, then closer still until he was positively testing the boundaries of propriety. Lorenz was hyperaware of the scant distance between them, as well as the open and above all public space around him. Claude, impossible person that he was, seemed unbothered. In fact, he leaned _closer_ , until their chests were nearly touching.

“Well,” he said in a low voice, “If you’ve any other matters to discuss, my room is next to yours. Tonight, perhaps.” Lorenz _knew_ what Claude actually meant, but he blushed anyway. Curse Claude.

“An hour after evening watch ends?” Lorenz suggested.

“Works for me,” Claude said and swayed out of Lorenz’s space. The air was cooler without him there, but that wasn’t itself a bad thing. Taking another step back, Claude hooked his hands behind his head and added, “Shouldn’t stay up too late, though, sleep’s important.”

“Hollow words from you,” Lorenz said, not looking at the way the pose displayed the smooth column of the other man’s neck. Lorenz had indulged in a cup of tea on the road _and_ a group hug this morning alone. That was surely more leisure than Claude had enjoyed in the past week. 

“I get my head down when I need to,” Claude said blithely. Right.

Leonie found him as he made his way to his old room. He glanced at her curiously.

“Rodrigue’s asleep, but apparently we was awake earlier,” she reported, “Felix is better than can be expected.” Rodr—oh, she meant Duke Fraldarius. Interesting. At any rate, she seemed much more at ease now than she’d been on the road, and he trusted this was a sign of the Duke’s prognosis. 

His room was surprisingly clean. He’d expected a great deal of dust, but—it had clearly been cleaned much more recently than five years ago. He unpacked his belongings quickly, hesitating only over—

“Letters?” Leonie asked. Lorenz felt himself flush and pulled the bundle of correspondence from his bag. It was the last thing he hadn’t unpacked, as he’d been considering whether it would be wiser to leave the bundle in his bag, out of sight, but— Too late. 

“Correct,” he sighed. He wished, occasionally, that he had a less fair complexion, more like Claude or Leonie. Perhaps then, on the rare occasions that he was unable to maintain perfect composure, it would feel less like he was flying a pair of red banners on his face, proclaiming his discomfort to the world. Leonie was not looking at him, however. She _was_ looking at the letters with curiosity. They were—the great majority of them were hers, of course. She had written such a lot, and he—he couldn’t simply leave them at Gloucester, and so he’d made room in his pack, but now, with her looking at them, he felt— With a further sigh, Lorenz reached into a pocket and drew forth the other thing. 

It was a river rock, cool and smooth and banded in light purple and grey. It fit perfectly in his hand, and although fidgeting was an unbecoming trait, Lorenz found the slight weight of it reassuring. He held it out for her inspection and felt oddly exposed when she reached for it, held it in her own hand. Despite the terrible heat in his cheeks, he watched her face carefully. Her expression was complicated enough that he didn’t know how to interpret it, but she handled his trinket with care and passed it back without a word. Lorenz put it back in his pocket and wasn’t entirely surprised when the exposed feeling only lessened but did not dissipate when it was safely out of sight. “And with that,” he said, clearing his throat, “I believe I have finished packing.” 

Leonie, being herself, nodded, and said, “Hungry?” He smiled even though his haze of unnecessary emotions and allowed her to lead the way to the dining hall. 

The situation was this: the Faerghan army would march to retake Fhirdiad. This was the most strategically sound move, and it was something of a relief that Dimitri, for whatever reason, had decided to heed his advisors. It was vitally important that Dimitri’s forces—headed by Dimitri, rightful heir to the throne, and advised by Byleth Eisner, the Enlightened One favored by Archbishop Rhea herself—retake the Kingdom capital. And of course it was important that the Alliance have a presence at the battle to provide symbolic and material support to the liberation of Fhirdiad. Lorenz nodded emphatically as it was agreed that Claude, as Alliance Leader, and Lysithea, as his right hand, should both be present for the battle. Of course Hilda, with her family name and experience leading an aerial force, should also be there. The addition of Raphael would be a neat gesture of solidarity from the commoners of Leicester to the citizenry of Faerghus.

 _However,_ the reallocation of troops north did represent a significant departure from their previous plans. (Lorenz spared a thought for Claude: the roundtable scheming, the secret communications, the _Almyrans_ , the preparation of two sets of banners for a dramatic reveal at Gronder Field—all for naught.) If the Faerghans went north, there went the troops that would have been between the heart of the Empire and the Alliance. The southern border, as represented by the Airmid River, would be vulnerable.

Thus, while Claude and the others went north to support the Faerghans, Lorenz, Leonie, and Ignatz would return to Gloucester to reinforce the border there. 

“Lorenz has to stay. Sorry, Lorenz,” Hilda said with a glance at him. He waved this away. He was a Gloucester, of course he had to stay. “Leonie, you’re from Gloucester. You know the terrain.” Leonie nodded. “Ignatz, you go too,” Ignatz nodded. Hilda took a deep breath. “Marianne,” here Hilda tilted her head just slightly. “You…?”

“I’ll be most useful here, at Garreg Mach. I’ll stay,” Marianne said, her voice quiet but calm. “I will miss you, though.” Hilda blushed— _Lorenz_ blushed to hear such a thing, and she wasn’t even addressing him— and ducked her head, peeking at Marianne through fluttering lashes. Oh. Well, then. Marianne smiled back before turning her attention back to the matter at hand. “Lysithea, if we have time to meet, perhaps we can discuss some of the minor bridges?” Lysithea was nodding already.

“I don’t like it, but if it’s sacrificing a bridge or leaving ourselves open, I know which one I’d choose,” the younger woman said. Lorenz, who was seated next to Ignatz, dared to glance at him. Ignatz caught the motion, raised his brows. 

“Marianne’s role…?” Lorenz whispered.

“Intelligence officer,” Ignatz whispered back. “With Hilda initially, but now that they’re out of the recruitment phase, Marianne can handle most of the network herself. She has sources Hilda doesn’t, too.” Oh. Well. Alright then. Lorenz nodded his thanks, and Ignatz smiled in acknowledgment. Now Lysithea and Marianne were talking about the most efficient ways to destroy bridges, with or without magic users onsite. Gracious, Lorenz should try to avoid side conversations in meetings, not only because it was poor form but also because the segues were so rapid.

Lorenz did visit Claude’s room after the evening watch ended, but it was not for anything risque. Of course Claude had managed to contrive something that was _more_ dangerously forbidden than an assignation of that sort, and of course Lorenz had involved himself as well.

“I rather expected Lysithea to be here,” Lorenz said, letting himself into the room. Claude shrugged. He was, to his credit, brewing a pot of tea for them both. 

“If you think Lysithea can be pried away from the monastery library for the likes of me, you’re mistaken.”

Lorenz stayed until long into the night.

“Lorenz,” Leonie called. “You got a sec?”

“Of course,” he said. It was a cloudy morning but the clouds were high and soft and carried no threat of rain. 

“Got something of yours,” Leonie said, and she held up—oh, that was. It was one of Lorenz’s old handkerchiefs from his Academy days. It was embroidered with his signature red rose. He’d—it had been early in their friendship. Leonie had been rushing about on an injury, and Lorenz had treated it but lacked a ready-made bandage and had used the kerchief instead. To think that she’d kept it all this time. Leonie added, “Sorry it took so long to get it back to you.”

“You didn’t need to return it,” Lorenz said. The thought of her with it was—it was very _strange_ and it made Lorenz feel strange. Leonie, being the person she was, shrugged. 

“It’s yours,” she said, and tried to hand it to him.

“Keep it, please,” he said, foolishly. She might as well keep it. And it wouldn’t be—it was a noble’s duty to give to commoners, and it wouldn’t be outlandish for her to—to keep it, as a token of their friendship. The exchange wherein the kerchief had changed hands marked one of the first times they had tried to understand one another, and he wanted her to have it.

“It’s yours,” Leonie said again, and she was still holding it out to Lorenz.

“I have no need of it, Leonie,” Lorenz tried, and—oh, that was a mistake. Irritation was creeping into her expression. 

“I don’t need it either. What am I supposed to do with it?” Nothing, Lorenz thought, just keep it. It was—it was a finely made object, soft and kind to the touch, and why shouldn’t she have it? “ _Lorenz_ ,” she said in a dangerous tone of voice, “Take the stupid handkerchief.” He did so, feeling oddly—odd. It was warm from her hand, and he smoothed the folds with care before putting it in his empty pocket where it became a soft, weightless presence. “Thank you,” she said. 

“Thank you, I suppose, for the return of my possession,” Lorenz managed. He touched his other pocket, where his river stone was a cool, smooth weight. Leonie huffed and was off, promising to see him at supper. Lorenz stood under the clouds for a moment longer before rousing himself. He had work to do.

Lorenz was returning to his room when heard a thud and a curse in a familiar female voice. When he arrived in the library it was to see Lysithea, who had clearly fallen, still on the ground next to a table laden with books and papers. She looked annoyed and tired. He rushed to help her to her feet and was somewhat surprised when she didn’t object.

It was far, far too easy to help her up. She was as light as a bird. She even allowed him to ease her back into her chair, which worried him further. 

“What happened?” he asked. She waved a hand dismissively.

“I went to stand up and I tripped,” she said. “Thanks for the help.”

“Can I get you anything?” he asked instead. “Water, or tea, or something to eat?”

“Nothing,” she said, and for a moment she looked bleak.

“Not even something sweet from the kitchens? You must keep up your strength,” Lorenz insisted. Lysithea stared through him for a moment. 

“Do you still correspond with Hanneman?” she asked. Lorenz nodded. “What do you think of his work?”

“I think it has promise,” Lorenz said slowly. “He is looking into the way certain Crests amplify white magic profi—” Lysithea was waving away his words.

“I’m familiar,” she said. “Did you ever ask Hanneman why his research had taken the direction that it did?”

“I haven’t,” Lorenz said honestly. Just as he hadn’t asked Lysithea what motivated her research. Given everything that was yet to be discovered about magic, the real wonder was that anyone was able to pick a single topic to pursue. If it had been Lorenz, he had no doubt he would flit from topic to topic like a butterfly, and get as little done too. Now, though, looking at his friend, he was starting to wish he’d been asking questions.

“You know what happened to my family,” Lysithea said. It was a statement, not a question. Lorenz nodded cautiously. 

When they were children, the Adrestian noble family Hyrm attempted to defect from the Empire. It did not go well for them. Lysithea’s family, being just across the border, had offered aid to Hyrm. Once Hyrm was back in hand, and despite the fact that Ordelia was _supposed_ to be sovereign, Adrestia retaliated by meddling with Ordelia’s affairs. There were—suspicious deaths, both within the family and among their retainers and other staff, and pressure was exerted when replacement officials were chosen. Ordelia abruptly withdrew its permission for representatives from the other Alliance Houses to cross its borders. The Ordelia family stopped communicating with the other noble families and failed to appear for roundtable meetings. Lorenz’s impression was that it was widely suspected that there was something amiss within Ordelia’s borders but—the territory was sovereign, and the Minor Houses were alert to any attempt by the Great Houses to test the limits of their legal protections—but no, that was an excuse. 

There was something amiss in Ordelia, and the Alliance chose to watch and wait rather than intercede. It was only when a member of the Ordelia household—a minor servant of some description, if Lorenz recalled correctly—crossed the border bearing a plea for aid that the Alliance roused itself. Lorenz felt cold as Lysithea continued to speak.

“When we were being controlled by the Empire, strange mages performed experiments on me and my siblings. We were all helpless together, me, my brothers and sisters, and our parents. They watched as we died, one by one.” She spoke softly, with emotion, but—it was almost as though she was telling someone else’s sad story rather than recounting her own horror and grief. “I was the only one who survived. The mages—” Here she touched her hair, and Lorenz recognized the distant look on her face. He’d seen it on soldiers unwillingly recalling battles and in courtrooms when survivors of violent crimes were interviewed. “They experimented with our blood, mostly. I was a mixed success: two Crests coexist within me, but my lifespan is shortened.” She sighed. 

“Perhaps you can help me, soon enough,” she said, voice gaining strength as she shifted from the past to the future. “When I die, that’s the end of our line. My family’s bloodline ends with me. You’re good with the law. When the war is over, help me—or my parents—set up some sort of arrangement for our lands when we’re gone. Our people deserve better than a succession crisis.” 

“Lysithea, I—I am so sorry,” Lorenz said, and stopped. Lysithea, looking into the middle distance, shrugged. Then she looked at Lorenz, and his heart hurt at the determination in her expression.

“Well? Will you help me? You can shape Ordelia’s governance for decades to come.”

“It would be my honor. I will help you look after your lands, no matter what the future may hold,” Lorenz promised. Lysithea didn’t smile, but she did look satisfied with this response. She put her hand out, and Lorenz clasped it. She smiled as they let go.

“Don’t go thinking I’ll let you just shape things however you want, though. What remains of Ordelia won’t just be absorbed into Gloucester. I won’t stand for it.”

“I would never think of it,” Lorenz said, “Even if Gloucester purple is a far more fetching and fashionable shade than Ordelia violet.” Lysithea scoffed in mock outrage, and demanded Lorenz fetch her something from the kitchen as recompense for his outlandish lies. Lorenz complied, gladly.

When he returned to his room—after, with much stubborn persuasion, seeing Lysithea to her own room for sleep—Lorenz found himself sitting and staring out the narrow window into the darkness beyond.

The last thing that happened during that period of time was a pleasant one: Lorenz accompanied Leonie to her village. It was a clear spring day. How strange, to realize that Sauin Village was closer to the monastery than it was to Gloucester Hall. The mighty Oghmas towered above them, veiled in clouds, and the air smelled of wet earth and pine trees.

“How are you feeling?” Lorenz asked. The occasion for their travel was, he imagined, an exciting one: Leonie was going to repay the last of her debt to her village. She had the money tucked in her pack, and he’d noticed that she often glanced its way.

“Good. I could go for a bite to eat soon,” she said. Ah, Leonie. Ever practical. “You?”

“Ah,” Lorenz hesitated. He knew she meant to ask if he was hungry, but—“I confess, I’m a little—I know not. Something,” he lied. He did know. He was a little nervous, as absurd as that sounded.

“Why?” Leonie asked.

“I’ve never visited Sauin Village. I don’t know what to expect.”

“It’s a pretty normal place,” Leonie said, “It’s a mountain town, not very big. Lots of hunting, some fishing. Woodcraft too. Small and tucked away.” She looked at him and her expression—softened. “Don’t worry. They’ll like you just fine.” She said it matter-of-factly, as if of course they would like Lorenz, as if she liked him just fine so they’d like him too, as if Lorenz was simply likable. “And what with Raph and Ignatz, they’re used to me bringing strangers to visit.”

“If you say so,” Lorenz said, and she tch’ed at him for questioning her. She grinned when he tutted at her in return. They rode on.

Sauin Village was, as Leonie has promised, fairly normal, small, and tucked away. In truth, he’d expected a poorer place, but although there were no signs of wealth, there were also not many indicators of real hardship. He even saw signs of recent construction here and there. Person after person greeted Leonie as they entered the town. They stared with open curiosity at Lorenz, and he was abruptly glad that his own dress armor was being maintained and he was in borrowed, standard armor instead. He normally liked his armor, of course, but—he felt conspicuous enough as it was. 

They tied up their horses and Leonie led Lorenz to a carpenter’s workshop. A number of people followed them. Ah, the workshop belonged to the town’s headman. He greeted Leonie in a friendly fashion. Lorenz observed as, together, they counted out the money she’d brought—observed the way the people who’d followed them watched with obvious interest but no trace of desperation or avarice—and the headman drew a large ledger from the shelf. There, with little ceremony, he marked the debt of Leonie Pinelli as paid in full. A few of the people who’d followed them in signed as witnesses, and—that was that. Lorenz couldn’t help watching Leonie as the headman smiled and patted her warmly on the shoulder. Lorenz would have expected that Leonie would be happy, proud, even relieved but instead she seemed—not unhappy, but her emotional response seemed more muted than he would have expected. The headman seemed to notice it too.

“Ain’t that a thing, Leonie,” he said, his hand still on her shoulder. 

“Ain’t it a thing,” she repeated in apparent agreement. She smiled then, crookedly, and the headman seemed reassured. He closed the ledger and returned it to its place on the shelf.

“Don’t go forgetting us now,” he joked, and Leonie ~~twitched~~ shrugged. 

“As if I could,” she said, and smiled a little. The headman grinned back at her, clearly pleased, and patted her shoulder again.

“Your dad’ll be out for a while yet, but your mum’s probably at her sister’s,” he said, and patted her hand. Leonie smiled a proper smile as she thanked him.

She seemed to come back to life as they walked the short way to a small house. It wasn’t new, but it was solid. Like all the buildings Lorenz had seen so far, it was clearly cared for. The paint was new enough that it hadn’t started to fade, and the herb bed by the door was well maintained. A pair of sturdy chairs sat on the other side of the door. 

Leonie knocked and then pushed the door open without waiting for a response. 

“It’s me,” she called, which resulted in a doubled cry from of female voices. 

“Leonie!” one woman exclaimed.

“Lee-Lee!” the other cried, and this woman raced to the door and wrapped her arms around Leonie. “Baby, it is you! What are you doing here?”

“Just paying off my bill, ma,” Leonie said, hugging her mother back. Lorenz stood back and watched as they embraced, quickly joined by the other woman—Leonie’s aunt, presumably—and a young girl of perhaps ten or so. The girl joined the hug but briefly, and then stood back to examine Lorenz. She had Leonie’s red hair and light, clear eyes. Her hair was braided back and tied with green bows that matched her dress, which was well-made without being expensive and boasted floral embroideries at the collar. A pale brown apron covered the dress, and her shoes, when Lorenz thought to look, also spoke of sufficiency but not wealth, being unadorned but made of good leather.

“Who is this?” Leonie’s (probable) mother asked, finally releasing her (probable) daughter long enough to glance at the stranger (Lorenz). Leonie’s mother was about forty, with light brown hair and Leonie’s round nose. She kept one arm around her daughter as she looked from Leonie to Lorenz.

“This is Lorenz, mom,” Leonie said, and Lorenz was aware that the other woman, her aunt, was whispering _I bet he’s a merchant’s son. He looks rich,_ to the girl, and the girl was whispering back about Lorenz’s boots and trousers. “He’s—”

“ _Oh,_ Lorenz, like from your letters?” Leonie’s aunt asked excitedly. Leonie groaned and rubbed a hand over her face. 

“What other Lorenz would it be?” she asked. 

“It’s a pretty common name, baby,” Leonie’s mom answered, and reached out and smoothed a hand over the girl’s back. “After the Count’s son, you know,” she added. Leonie groaned again.

“ _Yes,_ this is Lorenz, like the letters,” she said in a loud voice. Her mother only smiled at the interruption. The aunt made an interested noise. “And it happens that he _is_ —”

“Very pleased to meet you,” Lorenz interrupted. He—drat, he shouldn’t have interrupted, should have let Leonie say what she wanted to, but he knew how people—commoners—usually reacted when they met Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, and it was wildly different from the warm informality he’d been enjoying—yes, enjoying—so far. Leonie gave him a sharp look but didn’t say anything as he extended his hand in the direction of Leonie’s mother.

She grasped it in her own hand (a firm handshake, what else would he expect, even if it was lacking the callouses and casual strength of her daughter’s) and Lorenz—Goddess forgive him, but he felt an imp of mischief for just a moment. Instead of shaking her hand as she clearly expected, Lorenz bowed low and kissed the back of her fingers. 

“Do I have the honor of addressing Leonie’s mother?” he asked, still bent over her hand. 

“Oh—Margerie. Call me Marge,” she said, clearly flustered, and Lorenz made himself nod gravely. 

“Margerie Pinelli, I am most pleased to meet you,” he said as he straightened. Leonie was glaring at him, outraged as a wet cat, and Lorenz struggled to suppress a smile. 

“And you,” Leonie’s mother said. She took her hand back and adjusted her apron, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles. Then it was time to greet Leonie’s aunt, Olivia. She blushed as Lorenz kissed her hand, touching first her cheek and then her hair, absentmindedly as if to ensure it was behaving itself. Then, the girl—Leonie’s sister Yetta he learned—who did _not_ seem charmed by his manners. She looked so much more like a proper young lady than Lorenz imagined Leonie ever had, but she was no more shy and demure than her older sister. Lorenz had to fight not to smile when she narrowed her eyes at him after he kissed her hand. 

After that, there was a flurry of hospitable activity as Olivia scrambled to offer Lorenz and her niece tea and refreshment. Lorenz was not at all surprised that after Olivia stepped out ‘just to grab something real quick,’ it wasn’t long before a procession of friendly neighbors just happened to drop by in time to say hello to Leonie. They greeted Lorenz as well, and he was pleased to get to know a little about them when he could.

Before long, however, it was time to say farewell. Leonie was the recipient of a hug from her relatives, and Lorenz—to his own surprise—was given a hug by Leonie’s mother as well. Oh, that was quite kind of her. Leonie seemed livelier and lighter as they collected their horses and left the town. Lorenz smiled as they rode back to the monastery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to skip the ANs because *waves hands* you know, the world, but then I had to edit the chapter one more time so let's go:  
> \- *Me, chanting* This was a oneshot kinkmeme fill. This was a oneshot kinkmeme fill...  
> \- Sometimes, its kinkmeme fill origins are more obvious than others, such as: self-indulgent (on my part, ha) group hugs!  
> \- Holy moly is it a relief that Lorenz is finally in the room when the planning happens because Leonie doesn't care and doesn't have the vocabulary. *pats Lorenz*  
> \- Lorenz misses it because he's talking in class, but Lysithea and Marianne are the ones discussing bridge demolitions because a) Lysithea's been pioneering some great advancements in making things go boom and b) Marianne's childhood in Edmund makes her surprisingly knowledgeable about engineering and structural weak points. *pats Marianne* Good demo expert *pats Lysithea* good witch of destruction  
> \- Re: Lorenz flitting from magic topic to topic like a butterfly and not getting anything done. The poor boy doesn't have a grasp on the importance of pollinators :O shocking, I know  
> \--  
> If you want, for some reason, Sylvain/Dorothea porn, I recently posted [you, secret as the moon.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28607118) Femdom, pegging, verbal humilation, feminization.  
> \--  
> next chapter: putting the "crazy" in bureaucracy (not really)  
> \--  
> <3 Please take care of yourself. I am glad you are here.


	14. Myrddin, phase II

Preparation of the Airmid border continued apace. With Marianne to handle intelligence from Garreg Mach, and General Holst organizing the military action, Lorenz oversaw the logistics of ensuring their troops were properly equipped and paid on time. Leonie was among several people given the looser assignment of shoring up their defenses where needed. 

Quartermaster was not a _glamorous_ role. In fact, it was a job where forgettability was a sign of success; the most remembered were those who botched the role catastrophically. Lorenz put his head down and tried to become the best, least conspicuous quartermaster he could be. He calculated supplies needed. He attempted to ensure that what arrived matched what had been ordered. He consulted with Holst and Marianne and countless others. When it was necessary, he traveled from his base in Myrddin to the other forts along the Airmid.

He did so with a positive plethora of clerks. Ignatz had mentioned in passing that over the past years Hilda had been responsible for recruiting and training various persons for all manner of tasks—her work with the children from Garreg Mach took on a different cast when this information sank in, as did the fact that several of her trainees were employed in Lorenz’s family home—and now that the Alliance had officially and actively involved itself with the Adrestian matter, she oversaw many people's assignments. Lorenz didn’t know what to make of the clerks Hilda sent at first, but very soon he came to welcome any person who came with Hilda’s recommendation.

He worked with his senior clerks, Owen and Nelda, daily, and he became quite familiar with their assistants as well. There was Dana, Owen’s assistant, and there was Nelda’s assistant who went by ‘Kip.’ Since he saw them so regularly, he made an effort to get to know them.

“What’s that song you’ve been humming?” Lorenz asked. Dana flinched.

“Sorry, Master Lorenz,” she said. “It won’t happen again.”

“I didn’t mean that, I only wanted to know what it was,” Lorenz said. She ducked her head, a blush spreading across her cheeks.

“It’s a ballad; one of the soldier boys sung it for me,” she said. Well, that didn’t sound like Lorenz’s business—unless the soldier in question was causing trouble for his clerk, of course—but Lorenz made a curious noise to encourage her to speak nonetheless. “‘The Cat Comes Down the Mountain,’ Master Lorenz. It’s about—” 

“‘The Cat Comes Down the Mountain?’” Owen asked walking in with a fresh pile of messages. “Love that one. ‘Cat and Rat’ is more fun though.” 

“Only if you want a drinking song,” Nelda sighed, following on his heels. She had another load of missives. Following her was Kip, who carried, Lorenz was pleased to note, a tray of tea fixings.

“Yeah, it’s got that rhythm,” Owen agreed, nodding. Lorenz and Dana started making room on the table as soon as they caught sight of the tea things.

“‘Cat Braves the Storm’ is the best one,” Kip said with the sort of conviction that could only ever be found among fifteen-year-olds. “It’s got the prettiest melody, it’s the most fun to sing, and the story’s the best.”

“It’s cheesy, though,” Owen pointed out. “Come on, now.”

“It’s the best,” Kip insisted. “Dana, what do you think?”

“Oh, that one’s pretty,” Dana agreed. Kip gestured to her triumphantly.

“I’ve never heard of any of these songs,” Lorenz admitted. Owen smiled, Nelda nodded like she’d expected that, and Dana covered what was probably a smile too. Kip, though, looked taken aback. 

“None of them?” he wanted to know. He began unloading the tea things. “Not even ‘Cat Braves the Storm?’”

“None of them means none of them,” Owen said. “When would Master Lorenz have heard them?”

“I’ve seen him tapping his feet at the end-of-week sings,” Kip said. It was true, Lorenz had been making a point to venture to the informal festivities that happened at the fort on a weekly basis. Those who weren’t on duty or sleeping would gather to play games and make conversation, and folk song often transpired. 

“So technically, Master Lorenz may have heard one or two,” Owen allowed.

“The song that almost sent you to sleep last week, that was a Cat song,” Nelda told Lorenz. Lorenz felt his face heat. He’d been somewhat overtired to the point that he’d been drowsing in public.

“Which one?” Kip wanted to know.

“‘Wildcat Sunrise,’” Nelda said. To Lorenz she added, “That one’s my favorite. It’s very serene, which is unusual.” 

“ _All_ the Cat songs are good,” Kip asserted. Dana covered another smile. Owen didn’t bother. 

“Kip, for reasons he refuses to explain, loves every Cat song he’s ever heard,” Nelda teased gently. 

Kip colored but said stubbornly, “They’re good.”

“Kip fancies the Wildcat,” Dana suggested. He made a face like she’d waved a rotten fish under his nose.

“ _Ew,_ no. Shows what you know.” To Lorenz he said, “All the Cat songs talk about the Wildcat, obviously, and there’s your peaceful songs like Sunrise, and the story songs like Brave the Storm and Down the Mountain, and there’s the exciting ones like Cat and Rats. And they’re _all good,_ ” he added. 

“If you like her so much, why don’t you just marry her,” Dana said sweetly.

“Hey—”

“These songs are about a cat?” Lorenz asked, partly to head off the conversation and partly because he felt like he was missing something.

“ _The_ Wildcat,” Kip said.

“He doesn’t know,” Owen said in tones of realization. “Master Lorenz, you haven’t heard of the Wildcat?” Lorenz shook his head.

“This is a folk legend?” he asked.

“No, she’s real,” Kip said immediately.

“Most people think she’s real,” Nelda said. “Although I’m sure she hasn’t done half the things people claim she did.” 

“She _did,_ ” Kip said, and Dana was nodding.

“She rescued two girls who were being held by bandits in a cave,” Dana said.

“She saved a town from bandits,” Kip put in.

“By most accounts, she spends a lot of time fighting bandits,” Owen added. “All up and down the Oghmas.” 

“This is a lone figure?” Lorenz asked. Dana and Owen nodded. 

“Sometimes she works with the town to help them solve their own problems, that’s what happens in ‘Cat and the Hungry River,’” Kip said. 

“Kip is the Wildcat scholar,” Nelda said. 

“How many such songs are there?” Lorenz asked. Kip shrugged. 

“She traveled a lot, and people write new songs, and sometimes they rewrite them, so it’s hard to count,” he said in the manner of one who had thought about this question before. “I can think of three versions of Cat and Rat off the top of my head. And some of the songs that say they’re about the Wildcat aren’t really about her either, like ‘Wildcat and the Restless Wind.’” 

“That one’s really romantic though,” Dana said. “Even if it didn’t happen.”

“I just don’t think it’s real because none of the other songs mention a lover, or even a partner,” Kip said. Dana shrugged as if to indicate that the veracity of folk music was not her primary concern. Kip shrugged as if to say that romantic spirit was not his.

“Tea’s done,” Owen announced, and the topic of one extremely specific genre of folk music was allowed to fade in favor of a discussion of tea and biscuits. 

Kip appeared at Lorenz’s elbow as a new song struck up at the next ‘weekly sing,’ as he’d called it.

“This one’s a Cat song,” Kip said as though they were simply continuing the discussion. “Hey, Leonie.”

As their forces along the Airmid dug in and Lorenz and his staff found their feet, they were called to travel less and less. Ignatz and Leonie still traveled a great deal, though, which made the times they stopped at the Myrddin something of a treat.

“Kip,” Leonie at Lorenz’s other shoulder said. “I’m going to kill you.” This alarming proclamation was softened only somewhat by the smile on her face as she threatened the boy with death. She caught an arm around the back of his neck and proceeded to grind her knuckles into his hair while the boy flailed ineffectually. “Lorenz, how long has Kip been in your hair?”

“Kip is one of my clerks, Leonie, and I would thank you not to damage him,” Lorenz said. “Hilda recommended him to me.”

“ _Hilda_ ,” Leonie said in dire tones, and released the clerk. She put her hands on her hips and looked at him. “You stirring up trouble?”

“Never, Miss Pinelli,” Kip said.

“Liar,” Leonie said amiably.

“We’re just talking about songs, Leonie,” Kip said with a wide grin. Leonie made a face at him. Lorenz watched with interest. Kip seemed to have some kind of conversational advantage over his friend. Fascinating. 

“‘Just talking about songs,’” Leonie scoffed.

“Kip is a fan of the body of folk song known as ‘Wildcat songs,’” Lorenz supplied. “Since I am unfamiliar, he is helping me with my education.”

“Kip,” Leonie said, mysteriously aggrieved. Kip continued to grin at her. 

“I’m helping him with his education,” Kip said innocently. 

“Get out of here,” Leonie sighed. Kip, still grinning, disappeared in the direction of a group of other young men. 

“You know him?” Lorenz prompted. Leonie looked surprised, then she shook her head. 

“He’s from Garreg Mach, Lorenz, he was the fishkeeper’s boy.”

“Oh.” Lorenz felt embarrassed that he hadn’t known. “Hilda never told me, and I—didn’t ask.” Leonie shrugged.

“I mostly know him because I spent so much time fishing,” she said. Lorenz supposed that made sense, but he still felt embarrassed not to have learned this about his own clerk.

“You’re familiar with this genre of folk song?” Lorenz asked. “The Wildcat oeuvre.” Leonie put her face into her hands. Lorenz was fascinated to see that she was _blushing._ Wonders never cease. “Do you have any recommendations?” he asked innocently.

“I recommend my hand upside your head, how about that,” Leonie grumbled. She was still blushing, and it was even coloring her ears. It was ~~adorable~~ unprecedented. Lorenz couldn’t stop staring.

“I believe Kip’s favorite is one called ‘Cat Braves the Storm?’” Lorenz said. 

“He has a favorite?” Leonie asked, making a face. Lorenz nodded. “Why?”

“I think he said it was fun to sing, and he finds it beautiful,” Lorenz hazarded. Leonie rolled her eyes.

“Don’t get too attached; they’ll be forgotten by next spring,” she said.

“Which song is this?” Lorenz asked, listening to the song that was still being sung. Leonie shrugged.

“Like I know,” she said. Her blush was fading, to Lorenz’s disappointment. “Hey, what did you end up doing with that guy who was skimming?”

“Oh, _him_ ,” Lorenz said, and they were off talking about their work. He enjoyed the weekly sings but usually retired early; on occasions when Leonie’s Fourteenth Light Cavalry stopped at Myrddin he stayed up talking with her long into the night.

Despite everything there was to do—and there was a fearful lot of work to be done at all times—Lorenz did find time to continue his correspondence with Hanneman. 

_Lorenz,_  
_Lysithea wrote to say that you and she talked. Yes, I can say now that I have been researching different treatments for some time. My initial impulse was to look into ways to mitigate the undesired effects, but at this time I am looking into treating the problem at the root, as it were. I apologize if you feel you have been deceived, but I trust you understand why I acted as I did._

_If you recall our conversation about fine-tuning Munwa’s Adjustable Extractor, you may know I have been looking into ways of filtering the source of our problems. However, this method assumes there is some material present that can be removed, and that once removed it will not be replaced by some internal source. It also, as I’m sure you can imagine, relies very heavily on our ability to get the parameters_ exactly _right..._

When the time came for the Faerghus-Leicester United Forces (marching under a banner bearing the Crest of Flames, as Claude had envisioned) to embark, Lorenz was aware of it on a professional and personal level. In his work, Lorenz was aware of an ever-increasing pressure, a vise tightening, as he and the rest of the Alliance’s logistics personnel worked furiously to prepare for whatever would happen when the bulk of their allies traveled north. Hilda also saw fit to gift Lorenz a new batch of clerks before she departed, which meant that his offices were busily helping them to settle in while also trying to get everything in order under ever-changing circumstances. 

On a personal level, well, Lorenz worried. He worried about the Adrestian response, and he worried about his friends who were heading north, and he worried about—

“How’s the new flock?” Leonie asked, settling into the seat across from him. He smiled at her. 

“You mean, how are my new clerks? They are well-trained and seem to be in good spirits,” Loernz said. “And your men?”

“We’re okay,” Leonie sighed. She and the Fourteenth Light Cavalry had only just arrived back at Myrddin after a mission that had not gone entirely smoothly. Lorenz didn’t know the details, but some of her men had been injured in the action. “Dortie’s running them through extra training now. Need anyone to clean latrines?”

“I shall consider it,” Lorenz said. She volunteered a few more details about the mission and how it had gone awry, but it was obvious she didn’t relish the retelling. She seemed more lively when the conversation turned to how such a situation could be prevented in the future and what training was in store for the unfortunate unit that had allowed the situation to precipitate.

“How goes the case of the missing boots?” Leonie asked. Ah, the matter of the _boots_. Lorenz had quite a lot to say about that, actually.

By the time he was finished, they had concluded their meal and were walking under the evening sky.

“We’re lucky to have you for Quartermaster,” Leonie said. She stopped and out over the edge of the bridge. “You’ve got the mind for it.” Lorenz felt a blush begin.

“Thank you. And your men are fortunate to have so capable a commander,” Lorenz said. He watched her smile. 

“Thanks, I try,” she said lightly. “Not that you needed to say something nice back.”

“Perhaps I wanted to,” Lorenz said. When she looked at him, her expression was soft and open in a way he’d rarely seen but would quite like to see again. The sun was sinking quickly, though it had not yet dropped behind the Oghma Mountains, and the slanting light caressed her cheek in fingers of gold, brushed lightly over the line of her brow. 

“Do you think about after the war?” she asked, surprising him. If he didn’t know her, he might have described her tone as melancholic, perhaps wistful. Lorenz considered.

“Not often,” he said, “And every day.” Leonie laughed softly at that, more a sound of recognition than humor. It squeezed his chest ever so softly. “Why do you ask?”

“Dunno,” Leonie said, and stretched her arms over her head. The light gilded the column of her neck, caught at the points of her collar bones. Lorenz meant to look away, but—didn’t. Oh. “Why do people do anything?” Her voice was too light and careless, and she was looking out towards the mountains.

“Do you think about after the war?” Lorenz wanted to know. Leonie stared out into the distance a moment more, then set her hands on her hips. 

“Sometimes,” she said at last. “This isn’t what we planned, but it’s what we trained for, right? Leading troops into battle, provisioning them, strategy and tactics. But it’s not the way we thought it would be. I thought I’d be a mercenary, like Jeralt, and here I am in the army. And you were probably more worried about the Almyrans than anything else. We were training for a war, but we didn’t think there’d be one. It’s just funny, I guess. Ready or not, here comes history.” _Ready or not._

“Dimitri and the others depart soon, though it will be some time before they reach Fhirdiad,” Lorenz said. The words felt as though they were coming from some distance off. They had to be, surely, for Dimitri and the others were a distance away, at Garreg Mach, and Lorenz was—here. And Leonie was here.

“What do you think? Easier down here or harder?” she asked, still gazing into the distance while Lorenz looked at—at her.

“I think that, whatever the Empire decides to do, we’ll be best served by focusing on our own preparations,” Lorenz said. It was only natural that, as they approached a new stage of the war effort, their enemy’s actions would change. Would the Adrestians redouble their attention on the Airmid while the border was weakened, or would they redirect their energies north against the main body of the United Forces? Speculation was rampant, and this was not the first time he’d been asked this question. 

“Huh, that’s good, practical advice,” Leonie said, and she turned to look at him. She grinned—probably out of approval for his alleged practicality—and Lorenz was aware of how his own lips drew up in response, a helpless smile of his own.

“I have my moments,” he managed. Her grin faded into something softer, and Lorenz felt terribly, terribly fond. The moment stretched. Then her expression faded further, and she looked—strange, almost lost.

“After the war,” she said slowly, voice so low Lorenz caught himself leaning in to hear her, “I think it’ll be time for me to try something new. Something that doesn’t involve traveling so much.” _Oh,_ the thought that Leonie might stop traveling—but—

“What will you do?” he asked because—Leonie couldn’t be a mercenary if she stopped traveling, and—where would she go? She might return to icy Faerghus, or rugged Goneril, or distant Derdriu— Leonie made a face. 

“That’s a great question, Lorenz,” she said and she was, oh, so wry, “Got any good, practical advice for an old pal?” _Come back to Gloucester_ was certainly not the sort of thing she meant. Lorenz tried to think through the haze of surprise and, and—surprise. 

“…What you are thinking of will be a large departure,” he was what he managed eventually. “I think that the best thing, again, is to focus on the task before us. We must focus on winning the war, and once a peaceful future is secured—then there will be time to, to plan.” Lorenz’s magic was swimming through his veins again, warm and living and trying to escape. He pressed one hand against his pocket, felt the cool, smooth weight there. “I suspect that the end of the war will bring enough changes that any plans we try to make now will be of little help. Better to wait. And—when it is over, perhaps—perhaps you will ask me again, and I will have something of more—worth, to say.” 

There was a pause so long it verged on the painful. Leonie was looking out, towards the mountains. 

“Huh,” she said at last. “Okay.” One, helpless sound—a laugh—escaped Lorenz before he covered his face. _Okay._ That was certainly Leonie. He uncovered his face and smiled.

“I’m sorry. I know that wasn’t helpful,” he said. She was looking at him again, and her expression was—inchoate, unformed. He wondered helplessly what—what it might become, in time.

“No, it’s good,” she said. Her expression was in shadow, but her voice was warm and dearly familiar. The light was fading fast now, the sun slipping below the mountain ridge, but Lorenz wanted to stay, at least until the night spread itself across the landscape.


	15. Elmsford Bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third phase of the war was progressing well, and then—

Lorenz’s ‘musical education’ continued. He had no strong feelings for the Wildcat songs as a body of work, but he was enjoying being introduced to folk song at all. Kip had apparently seen fit to recruit several others, and once a week, Lorenz found himself at the center of a small cluster of people intent on opening his eyes to the nuances of a new genre. 

It was a strange experience, but not unwelcome. It would be most proper, Lorenz knew, for him to keep himself to his peers, but there were not many nobles at the fort. Even the Sila, the fort’s commander, mingled with the common soldiers and other staff. Lorenz was only following his commander’s example.

“And drew her sword, threw back her head, and hacked and slashed and smacked and stabbed ‘til all her foes were dead,” he sang as part of the group. “Gracious, what a violent chorus,” he murmured to himself. Kip’s friend, the one with the beard—Ulrich?—laughed and clapped him on the back.

“But it’s good rhythm. And, hey, you finally got it,” he congratulated. 

“Hacked and smacked and slashed and stabbed,” Lorenz recited solemnly—and wrongly. Ulrich laughed again and shook Lorenz gently by the shoulder. In another time, such familiarity would have been unthinkable to Lorenz, but the present was the present.

“Never mind, try again milord,” he said and Lorenz tapped his feet as his companions sang their way through another verse and waited for the chorus to come.

News news came at the end of Harpstring Moon: the Faerghus-Leicester United Forces had succeeded in liberating Fhirdiad. The celebrations at Myrddin were something to behold. Lorenz could scarcely imagine what it was like in Fhirdiad itself. 

Dimitri was thrice legitimated: by his blood as the trueborn and only heir to the Blaiddyd dynasty, by the strength of his army, and by popular support as his subjects rose to fight for him. With Byleth by his side _and_ his miraculous return after his reported death almost half a decade ago, Dimitri’s reclamation of Fhirdiad doubtless had a touch of divine providence as well.

The victory at Fhirdiad marked the beginning of the third phase of the war. There was a flurry of activity to secure western Faerghus and drive out the Empire’s forces. Several of Dimitri’s commanders harried the Empire within its own territory. And, of course, there was be a frightful amount of organizing to be done. The Faerghus-Leicester United Forces had been so successful that their army was _larger_ now. Lorenz and his clerks diverted of some of their supplies to the north while logistics there were being addressed.

While the Faerghans were occupied with Faerghus, Claude returned to the Alliance. Hilda and Lysithea accompanied him. Raphael joined Marianne at Garreg Mach, and Lorenz and his staff remained at Myrddin.

The Empire’s strategy shifted. Rather than harrying the Airmid border with frequent small attacks, the Adrestians favored fewer but more powerful strikes. In response, the Alliance military command reduced the number of its roving units in favor of reinforcing strategically important bridges. Among the commanders promoted was none other than Leonie Pinelli, leader of the Fourteenth Light Cavalry and, now, commander of Fort Elmsford. 

And so the second phase gave way to the third. And—Lorenz’s staff became quite accustomed to the Alliance Leader himself coming to speak at length and in private with their very own quartermaster.

For Lorenz’s birthday, which fell almost in the middle of Garland Moon, Claude brought him a tome’s worth of unbound paper.

“Did you write all this yourself?” Lorenz asked, flipping rapidly through the pages as he sat on his narrow bed. 

“Who else?” Claude asked. He had commandeered the tiny table Lorenz had managed to squeeze into the room to serve as a private desk. 

“Your handwriting is worse than when we were in school, how is that possible?” Lorenz asked. Claude snorted. 

“Going to hit the backs of my hands with a ruler, Lorenz?” he asked. Lorenz tch’ed at him.

“And you’ve glossed over some fairly important matters,” Lorenz added. Claude sighed.

“That’s why you’re here, to help. And I am here—” Lorenz glanced up at the tone of his voice “—to wish _you_ a happy birthday,” Claude said beaming. Oh. On the table, Claude had set up a tea set (sturdy but well-made, in a warm golden brown) and laid out a modest assortment of treats. With a flourish, Claude also produced a small package wrapped in cloth.

Lorenz said nothing as he accepted the gift. With Claude watching, he unwrapped it to reveal—a collection of his favorite teas, from his favorite shop. 

“Thank you,” he said. Claude grinned and hooked his hands behind his head.

“Don’t go getting all emotional on me, Lorenz, it’s from all of us,” he said. “Happy birthday.” 

“Thank you,” Lorenz said again and resisted the urge to clutch it foolishly to his chest. Ordinarily, he celebrated his birthday privately, with his parents, but there was a war on and he could hardly nip back to Gloucester for breakfast with his mother and riding with his father in the afternoon. And, of course, with the exigencies of the war ~~and his disloyalty against his father still a fresh wound~~ it would hardly be proper for his parents to, to fritter away their finite resources on something as petty as birthday presents, but—the hour was late. It was probably excusable that Lorenz found himself touched by the gesture.

Perhaps some of his thoughts showed on his face. When Lorenz looked up it was to see Claude regarding him with an uncharacteristically soft expression. He quickly hid it under one of his easy smiles when he saw Lorenz looking. 

“Come on, the water will get cold,” Claude said and pulled out one of the chairs. “Pick out a tea and let’s have some cake.” 

“What kind of cake is it?” Lorenz asked, pulling out his own chair. “So I can make the most appropriate pairing.” Claude laughed and shook his head. The mass of papers on Lorenz’s bed was—literally—a weighty reminder of the work they still had to do, but just for a while Lorenz savored the sweetness of his cake and the warmth of the tea.

The third phase of the war was progressing well, and then—

News came that Elmsford had been taken. It was not, in the overall war, notable. On a personal level, however—

“Master Lorenz, what’s this about?” Owen asked as he and Dana filed into the room. Lorenz was about to say that he would wait to begin until the others arrived when the sound of rapid footsteps preceded Kip’s equally rapid entrance to the room. He caught himself on the doorway, presumably as an energy-saving maneuver. 

“Tell me it isn’t true,” Kip demanded. Lorenz had the brief, useless thought that he should probably remind Kip that if he was going to read confidential reports and listen in on private meetings, he should refrain from making his actions so obvious.

“It is,” Lorenz said instead, “Sit down.” Kip did so, practically falling into an empty chair. Lorenz was wondering what to say when Nelda sailed into the room with impeccable timing.

“You shouldn’t run indoors,” she reminded Kip as she took the seat next to him. Kip, uncharacteristically, said nothing, only fidgeted restlessly in his chair. Lorenz closed the door.

“Elmsford Bridge was taken by the enemy earlier today,” he said, “General Holst is leading the response. The Fourteenth Light Cavalry intends to withdraw to Garreg Mach.”

“Garreg Mach?” Owen repeated in confusion. “Why? Isn’t there somewhere closer?” Lorenz had been wondering that himself. He couldn’t think of a reason to withdraw that far unless something dire had happened.

“There are closer forts—” he began.

“Refugees,” Kip interrupted. “The village.” _Oh_ , that made a certain kind of sense, but it was strange that Kip sounded so very sure. The boy crossed his arms tightly across his chest.

“Sorry,” Dana asked hesitantly, “But, who is this? Which unit?”

“The Fourteenth Ligh—” Lorenz began.

“The Quickpaws,” Kip said. “Leonie.”

“Oh, your friend,” Dana breathed, covering her mouth. Lorenz and Kip nodded. 

“What refugees?” Owen asked. 

“The town. She’ll have some of their children with her at the least,” Kip said. Owen raised his brows but said nothing. In a mutter, the boy added, “She’s done it before, not her personally, but—” He caught Lorenz’s eye, raised his brows meaningfully. Lorenz didn’t underst— _oh,_ Garreg Mach? Lorenz hadn’t known that. “Don’t spread it around. I’m not even supposed to know or something, and I was there.”

“You were wh—” Dana started to ask.

“It makes sense,” Lorenz said. “If it was just the Fourteenth—even if they, if they’d sustained heavy casualties—it would be more logical to withdraw to one of the neighboring forts. But none of the forts are equipped for refugees, and—”

“We’re going, right?” Kip asked. “That’s why you called us. We’ll be needed—”

“Do you really think there will be refugees?” Owen asked. “Those can’t have been her orders.”

“They wouldn’t have been, no,” Nelda said somberly. “Not for a town like Elmsford.”

“Then why are you so sure—” Owen began.

“She _did,_ okay, and—” Kip snapped.

“If there are refugees, who’s going to feed them?” Nelda interrupted smoothly, voice utterly polite as she addressed Lorenz. She laid a hand on her assistant’s shoulder. He settled, reluctantly. 

“Us,” Lorenz said, “The Alliance.” Gloucester, since they were Gloucester citizens. “So, yes, Kip is correct that we’ll be needed at the monastery.” 

“Who will you send?” Owen asked. His mental shift into ‘master of supply logistics’ was almost visible.

“I’m not sending anyone. We’re all going,” Lorenz said. Dana looked surprised. Kip nodded. Owen looked surprised, then thoughtful, and shared a glance with Nelda, who looked resigned.

“When do we leave?” Nelda asked. Lorenz hesitated.

“How quickly—”

“Tomorrow if you want us to be able to find so much as our quills when we get there,” Owen said. “Though the day after would be less of a mess.”

“Day after tomorrow then,” Lorenz allowed. At the shift in Kip’s expression, Lorenz added, “She and the Fourteenth can move quickly enough, but if they have any significant number of townsfolk with them, they’ll be slowed. And we do need to be able to help when we get there.” Kip scowled but nodded. He looked like he wanted to ride out that night, catch up with them wherever they were. Lorenz understood.

In spite of the delay, they still beat the Fourteenth Light Cavalry to Garreg Mach. It was strange that somewhere along the way, they had overtaken the other party without realizing.

They’d intended to relocate to the monastery as the third phase drew to a close anyway. It was more centrally located than Myrddin. Marianne and Raphael found Lorenz not long after he’d dismissed his clerks to settle in. 

“Lorenz! You’re back early,” Raphael said, patting him on the back. Lorenz smiled wanly.

“How are you doing?” Marianne asked kindly.

“Well enough,” Lorenz said. “Seteth did not seem especially thrilled to see me, but alas.”

“He just doesn’t like surprises,” Raphael said. “Let’s get you settled in, and then we’ll get something to eat.” Marianne bid them farewell—she’d only made time to greet Lorenz, which he was touched by—but Raphael followed Lorenz to his room, chatting amiably about the business of Garreg Mach. It seemed Raphael was well-regarded among the Knights of Seiros. Lorenz dug through his bag for the work things he expected to need later that day. 

“What’s that?” Raphael asked, pointing at the corner of the bundle of papers that peeked out from Lorenz’s bag. 

“Ah. That is—a, a manuscript. I am preparing a treatise on trade laws within the Alliance, using the sale of tea and its accouterments as a kind of lens to examine changes over time,” Lorenz invented wildly. He was sure he was redfaced with the deception. Raphael’s friendly expression didn’t change so much as go wooden, his face freezing into a well-intentioned mask.

“Neat,” Raphael said.

“I could use help indexing from page two hundred onwards,” Lorenz added.

“Huh,” Raphael said, still smiling. The big man clapped his hands together. “Let’s go see what the dining hall has cooked up, yeah?” 

“Sounds lovely,” Lorenz said and allowed himself to be propelled from the room. He might do well to remember that particular lie if it was that effective at killing any inquiry into his otherwise suspicious bundle of papers.

Seteth granted Lorenz and his staff the old Blue Lions classroom to work in. There was some tidying that had to be done, but the roof over the Golden Deer classroom had partially collapsed so it could have been worse. Lorenz expected to be reprimanded for capriciously uprooting his staff ahead of schedule, and he was, but it was nowhere near the lambasting he expected. 

They’d settled in and were working hard when Leonie and her people arrived. Lorenz was in a meeting, and by the time it let out, Leonie was—according to her assistant—already asleep. Well. There was work to do to help provision the refugees. 

Lorenz felt foolish sitting on the floor of the monastery, but not as foolish as he probably should. Leonie was still sleeping—which was good—and he, well, he wished to be present when she awoke. Waiting for her, hoping she was okay, _worrying_ , it was all too reminiscent of that confusing period after Jeralt had died. Similar, but not the same. For one thing, there was no Felix around to swordfight her into a better mood, and for another—

Leonie’s door opened and she stepped out. 

“Leonie,” Lorenz said as he stood. Oh, she looked terrible, exhausted and worn. He was moving before he could think, reaching for her. “We came as soon as we could, I— _oh._ Leonie.” She was warm in his arms, and alive, and he held her tightly, dared to bury his face against her hair. Her arms came around his waist in return, and he—Goddess forgive him, she was so dear. She’d worked so hard and looked so tired and he just—he cared for her. He tried to breathe out his residual fear for her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked with no particular inflection. 

“We got the news,” Lorenz said, heavily, remembered horror running chilly fingertips down his spine. “About Elmsford. I was so—I knew, logically, that you must have—that you—that you were alive, but I—” He swallowed hard. “And then, when more details came, that you were coming here, I knew—you must have taken the villagers.” Leonie was pressing herself close now, still warm, and he wanted to—hold her closer, somehow. 

“Not all of them. Some of them wouldn’t come.” Oh, oh no. Lorenz had—her assistant had mentioned this, that she seemed more defeated than relieved, haunted by those who’d opted to stay rather than flee. Lorenz hurt for her, he did, but he—oh, dear. He wanted to kiss her hair, her brow, her eyelids— He contented himself by squeezing her more tightly.

“You cannot make people’s decisions for them,” he said. “And while you have been sleeping, I have been receiving reports and making lists. I can tell you precisely how many people you and your men brought here, safe.”

“Don’t,” she said, voice brittle. It hurt to hear her close to tears.

“Mourn the dead as they deserve, Leonie, but don’t forget the living. They matter, and there are more of them here today because of you and your men,” he said as gently as he could. It did not have the desired effect—he felt her frame shake, felt the way she was refusing to breathe, felt his shirt grow wet with her tears. He couldn’t help it; he pressed his mouth to the crown of her head and wished fervently that he could help. She kept crying. He helped her into her room and sat with her on the bed until she’d cried herself out. Oh, Leonie. When she seemed to be calming, he asked, “When did you last eat?” She laughed wetly, shaking both their bodies.

“I don’t remember. Probably some time today. Is it still today?”

“It’s still the twenty-third.” 

“Today then,” Leonie said. Lorenz squeezed her tightly.

“Ah, so you have eaten ‘today,’ well done. Surely there is no chance that hunger is causing you to become overwrought,” he dared to tease. She laughed, a tired sound but a welcome one. Lorenz found himself cupping her face, hoping to see even the ghost of a smile there. She—oh, she was so dear. Even tearstained and unkempt, she was lovely, and he—and Lorenz—Lorenz was in trouble. Her eyes were red and her nose had run, and he still wanted to kiss her. He brushed the hair from her face, fingers tracing her brow.

“It really bothers you, huh? My scar,” she said nonsensically.

“Not at all,” he said honestly. Except that she’d been hurt, but not otherwise, no. He traced the mark carefully.

“Good. Because I like it,” she said and she sounded so much like herself that he—the helpless desire to press his lips to hers was still there. He was still cupping her face. “Makes me look fierce, like Jeralt,” she added. 

“M—” _My dear,_ he almost said. He swallowed it in time. “You don’t need to look like Jeralt. You are formidable in your own right.” Her eyes widened, searching his expression, and Lorenz was terrified he’d given himself away—already, too soon—and she laughed a hiccupy laugh and then started to cry. Oh, Leonie. He guided her head back to his shoulder. The only good thing about her tears was that they made it easier to remember that he—was supposed to be her friend, supposed to be comforting her and not getting carried away by any stray thoughts. So he hugged her and rubbed gentle circles on her back and when he couldn’t quite help himself, he pressed his mouth against her hair. 

She calmed again, and leaned out of his hold, and he let her. His hands were still on her arms, however, but she didn’t seem to mind. 

“Something to eat?” she suggested, and he tugged her in for one more hug before standing and helping her to her feet. 

“I don’t know what to say except that I am thrilled to hear you say that, isn’t that funny,” he remarked. She smiled, and he—made himself let go, finally, stepped back. She looked a little messy—she’d been on the road for days and likely hadn’t bathed—but she washed her face and at least didn’t look like she’d been crying. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then another one, and she let him. Oh. He didn’t know what that meant, exactly. They ventured out of her room and towards the dining hall.


	16. brush of hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Should I throw it away?” she asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to voicefullofmoney who beta'ed half this chapter :D  
> And thanks to YOU for being here <3

A week passed, and Lorenz grew increasingly concerned. Leonie was promoted from unit commander to staff officer, offering her expertise to map out potential invasion routes for the fourth phase of the war. Yet it was apparent that she derived no satisfaction from the work, nor any of the other tasks she undertook. Lorenz fell into the habit of trying to collect her for breakfast and dinner, and he suspected that she would forget to eat otherwise. Leonie Pinelli forgetting to eat: the notion was offensive to the very soul.

He found her clearing rubble from a courtyard. She was kneeling on the ground surrounded by a partially cleared area. Chunks of stone that she must have deemed potentially useful were neatly set to one side. It was clearly the work of hours. The sun shone mercilessly, and the only clouds to be seen were far to the north. She should really wear a hat of some sort if she was going to labor in the sun. 

“I thought I might find you here,” Lorenz said to catch her attention. “Have you already eaten?”

“Not since breakfast. Are they even still serving food?” she said carelessly, sitting back and dragging a hand across her brow. Lorenz suppressed a frown, that she had done that work on a single small meal. 

“They’ll have something for you,” he said instead. Putting aside the fact that the kitchens were very understanding of the vagaries of everyone’s schedules and made it a point to at least have cold food available at all hours, many of the monastery staff looked favorably upon Leonie. Her recent heroics at Elmsford had certainly helped. Some of the refugees now worked in the kitchens. Lorenz had no doubt that, even if it was midnight, they’d find something to feed Leonie.

“What’re you up to?” she asked, still kneeling on the ground. It wasn’t an accusation, just a question. Lorenz smiled crookedly and raised his brows. 

“Trying to get my friend to eat something.” Leonie looked from him to her work area to the cloudless sky, then back at him. He held a hand out to her. She reached for it, then hesitated and looked at herself. Ah, yes, some of the dirt and dust from her labor had clung to her. He kept his hand extended. She, contrary creature that she was, pushed herself to her feet, where she staggered once before gaining her balance. Lorenz hovered at her side all the way to to the dining hall. 

Per his prediction, the kitchen staff was more than happy to prepare a literal basket of food for Leonie, which she accepted with muted thanks. She led them out again, basket in hand, and seemed intent on leading them back to the ruined building where he’d found her. There wasn’t so much as a scrap of shade there. Lorenz dared to put a hand on her elbow and guide her in a different direction, to the mostly-intact dormitories with their pleasantly shadowed walkways. She went without comment. They sat side by side, their legs dangling off the edge of the walkway. Lorenz watched with satisfaction as she ate, mechanically at first and then with increasing enthusiasm. He waited as she retreated to her room to wash up and change, then stayed by her side all the way to the main meeting room where they joined several other officers to nail down some of the specifics for the planned invasion of the Empire. Marianne gave Lorenz a faint look of approval when he and Leonie arrived together. Lorenz blushed.

His embarrassment didn’t stop him from trailing after Leonie when the meeting let out. This time, since she wasn’t changing and there was no risk of seeing her in undress, he followed her into her room. He couldn’t help but notice that she still seemed to be entirely packed. She’d unpacked for the handful of days they’d spent at Garreg Mach after the Great Bridge of Myrddin was retaken. His initial inquiry as to why was met only with tired indifference.

“It really doesn’t bother you?” he asked, not sure why it was bothering _him._ She only shrugged, gaze distant. Lorenz tried again. “Surely it’s less comfortable and convenient this way?” 

“I’ll just have to repack again, and…” she trailed off, apparently lacking the interest required to finish her own thought.

“We’re going to be here for a few weeks, barring unforeseen events,” Lorenz said carefully. Leonie shrugged again. A long moment passed.

“Fine,” she sighed.

Instead of taking things out of her bag, she upended it over her bed. Clothes, pieces of correspondence, and other miscellaneous supplies fell out. Leonie’s posture changed slightly—surprise? interest—and she picked up a small object wrapped in a scrap of cloth. She picked it up, unwrapped it, and Lorenz couldn’t help blurting—

“My comb?” He hadn’t seen it in years, but he still recognized it. It—Oh, Leonie was looking at him now, brows raised, expression otherwise inscrutable. Lorenz covered his mouth. A blush burned his cheeks. 

“Yeah,” Leonie said after an interminable moment. She held it out to him. He hesitated. She shook it at him impatiently. “Lorenz, I’ve been carrying this thing around for who knows how long. Take it.” Lorenz continued to hesitate. His mother—his parents would never approve, and there were good reasons not to accept it, but he, he _ached_ to see it—Leonie sighed.

“Lorenz,” she asked with awful patience. “Do you want the comb?” Lorenz was mute with embarrassment. He—did he _want_ —the question had to be rhetorical, she had to know—but then, he’d never said— He opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out. Where to even begin. She waited.

“Should I throw it away?” she asked.

“ _No._ ” Goddess, no, the thought made him sick, that she might—that it might be discarded—

“Okay,” she said. “Take the comb.” It— He— _But_ —

He took the comb. 

It was almost exactly as he’d remembered it: a little worn, perhaps, from its time on the road, but well-made and charming. He traced gentle fingers over the carefully painted rabbit and touched each of the painted flowers. Oh.

When he looked up again, Leonie was looking at him. Her expression was some mixture of watchful and curious. She caught his eye and smiled slightly, a crooked upturn of her lips. Lorenz’s flush redoubled, and he slipped the comb into a pocket and—reached for her. He tugged her close, and she went along easily. She was solid and warm in his arms, and she fitted herself against him. He minded himself not to cling, resisted the urge to tuck his face against her neck. She seemed to have no such qualms, wrapping one arm comfortably around him and rubbing circles on his back with her other hand. He could almost melt. When her hand came up to cup the back of his head, he gave in and rested his cheek against her.

The moment stretched, and the longer it lasted, the more aware Lorenz became of himself and Leonie and the intervening time since they’d met—of the importance of her companionship. When Leonie shifted and began to draw away, it was natural to follow suit. But his free hand also came up to cup her face, and that felt natural too. His—fondness overwhelmed him as he traced his thumb over her scar, her cheekbone, carefully smoothed it over the tired skin under her eye. She let him, again, and he—

Not breathing, hardly daring to think, Lorenz leaned in and fitted their mouths together.

It was—she—his heart was pounding, and his hands were sweaty. Their noses bumped together, and he was convinced, for a moment, that he was seconds away from being shoved away but—she kissed him back, slow and willing. One of her hands was still cupping the back of his head, and her other hand found its way to his jaw. Her lips were terribly soft. Lorenz was so warm he wanted to melt. He tried to deepen the kiss but must have done it wrong because the hand at his jaw was suddenly holding him still. When he relented, Leonie guided him closer, showed him a better way to fit their mouths together. Oh. Lorenz did melt, opening for her, and heat was flooding not just his face but his whole body. 

When they separated, she didn’t withdraw even as much as a handspan, but Lorenz felt the distance acutely. He was panting slightly as he stared at her. She smiled and teased a lock of his hair free before tucking it behind his ear. Her eyes were so bright. 

“Is this what we’re doing now?” she asked lightly, still warm and near. Lorenz felt himself blush anew.

“If it’s—amenable,” he managed. She let out a single, bright bubble of laughter and grinned brilliantly at him. She drew him close, resting forehead to forehead with their noses brushing, and he felt breathless. 

“Yeah, I’d like that,” she said, and kissed him again.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not to be That Guy but if you wanted to leave keysmashes & emoji in the comments, this would be a great time for it ;D

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are a delight!


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